


Juniper and Bergamot

by SaintHeretical



Series: Reylo Eh! [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Rey (Star Wars), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canada, Anal Play, Bartender Rey, Botanicals Porn, British Columbia, Come Marking, Dad (not Daddy) Kink, Distilling Porn, F/M, Face-Sitting, Gin - Freeform, Masturbation in a barn, Mentions of alcoholism, Multi, Omega Ben Solo, Porn, Rimming, Woman on Top, minor Poe Dameron/Finn/Rose Tico, scent porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintHeretical/pseuds/SaintHeretical
Summary: It's hard out there for a female Alpha, especially one with Rey's past, but she's worked hard to find her place. Now at 22, she's the owner of the trendiest bar in Vancouver, The Antilles, which is staffed with her best friends and (unfortunately) full of pretentious hipster customers.When a mysterious bottle of gin shows up at the bar, Rey sets out to find the person responsible for distilling it, and discover exactly how and why they chose to make it. Because the gin isn't just unusual; it also smellsexactlylike her.randomized prompts:Canadian Craft GinandA/B/O





	1. Juniper and Bergamot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TourmalineGreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineGreen/gifts), [guibass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guibass/gifts).



> Part two of my "randomized Canadian prompts" series. Enjoy!

“–anyways babe, that’s why I think all of this drama about designations is just horse shit, y’know? We’re beyond gender, beyond heteronormativity, beyond race...why can’t we be beyond designations too? Every Alpha and Omega I know has been on suppressants since they were a kid, so it’s not like it even matters!”

Rey, who for the last five minutes has been staring blankly at the customer’s obnoxious handlebar moustache, shakes her head and straightens up, pressing her hands into the warm wooden bartop. “Excuse me?” she mumbles, frowning. “Sorry, you’re saying that–”

“Designation doesn’t matter.” He takes a deep swig of his IPA, then leans back on the barstool with a smug smile on his face, like he’s just recited Pi to a thousand digits or something equally impressive. “Just like how gender doesn’t matter, or race. It’s all useless.”

“Ohhh, it’s all useless, is it?” Blinking a couple times to clear the red from her vision, she rests her elbows on the bar and grimaces. “You do realize that there’s a large spectrum between ‘bigotry’ and ‘outright erasure’? It’s all useless–” She mutters under her breath. “Tell that to the omegas who were denied the right to work for hundreds of years. Tell that to the First Nations kids who were stolen from their parents, whose families are still dealing with inter-generational trauma. Tell that to the transwoman who finally has the legal right to use her preferred washroom and have a birth certificate that won’t trigger her.”

She’s getting louder, drawing the attention of Poe at the front, who abandons his greeting post and swerves around tables to get to her. “It’s important for us to acknowledge our differences so that we can  _ respect _ them and protect those who need it. For example, there’s a law in place to protect Betas like you so that instead of  _ commanding _ you to leave, I have to politely tell you to fu–”

“–what Rey’s trying to say,” Poe interjects, sliding in front of her as she snarls at Mustache Guy, “–is that we’ve appreciated your patronage this evening, but our time together has sadly come to an end.”

“Wait, wait!” Moustache Guy tries push Poe to the side, eyes locked on Rey. “So you’re an  _ Alpha _ ? For real?”

“FINN!” Poe waves over the other man, who abandons the table he was bussing and jogs over. 

“Sir, do we have a problem here?” he asks, using his best ‘take me seriously’ voice. “You do realize we have a no harassment policy here regarding our staff?”

Moustache Guy waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, she’s fine dude.” His gaze remains fixated on Rey. “Y’know, I’ve never met a  _ female _ Alpha before.”

“And you never will,” she snaps back. “Now get the  _ fuck _ out of my bar!”

Then several things happen at once. Rey, fed up with yet another obnoxious hipster with problematic facial hair and an attitude problem, launches herself up onto the bartop in an effort to physically remove him from her presence. Thinking quickly, Finn pushes her back down with a firm hand on her shoulder while Poe whisks the guy out the door with a half hearted “Thank you for coming to The Antilles, we appreciate your patronage!” 

It’s a seamless process, born out of necessity. The combination of an endless stream of lonely, horny customers and a young, attractive female bartender is already trouble, but overly opinionated hipsters constantly hitting on an Alpha with a blazing temper? It’s explosive, even on a Tuesday night.

Poe slides onto the barstool previously occupied by Moustache Guy. “So, he seemed nice.”

“Just one of those people who thinks that we’re in a post- gender, post- designation society. Probably a first year poli sci major.” Rey wrinkles her nose. “We seem to be getting a lot of those lately. I hope they’re not telling their friends about us.”

“You are the only business owner I’ve ever met who spends their time complaining about how popular their establishment is. Embrace it. Revel in it. You run the most popular bar in Gastown, hell, probably in the entire city of Vancouver, and here you are moaning about how there’s too many hipsters coming in.”

“They’re paying customers, Rey,” Finn chimes in, hopping on the stool next to Poe. 

“But they’re annoying,” she groans. “And rude. And ignorant. Acting like since they don’t need job protections or heat leave, the whole system is irrelevant.” 

“Speaking of which…” Poe’s voice trails off.

“Oh, of course! Right!” She waves Snap over to cover the bar, then takes Poe behind, through the kitchen, and into her office. Pulling up her Outlook calendar, she sees the familiar red bar blocking off all of next week. “Mhhhm, looks good. So, will it be–?”

“Finn and I, but…” He pauses, bites his lip, then looks up at her bashfully. “...maybe Rose as well? We’ve already asked Paige, and she’ll cover her shifts, no problem.”

Rey lets out an exaggerated, long suffering sigh. “I suppose this is what I get when my three best employees are in a relationship. Okay, as long as she lets me know beforehand, we should be fine.”

He grins. “Awesome! You’re the best, boss.”

“I mean, it’s a federally mandated right,” she deadpans.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, Rey. Not every boss is as cool with it as you.”

She does know what he means. Back when she was a teenager and used to work for other people, prospective employers would be hesitant to even call her in for an interview. As an employer now, she understands why; hiring a young, fertile female who submits a paper resume that smells faintly of cheap blockers would require taking on the burden of covering her quarterly heat leave. Most interviews these days contain a thinly veiled ‘heat leave’ question, something like ‘Will you have any reason to take multiple leaves of absence within a 12 month period?’, and there was nothing Rey liked more than facing down her interviewer with a firm ‘No’.

It’s confusing to most people, how a sweet faced, slim female like her can be an Alpha. She equates the slimness with childhood poverty, and she can’t help her face. As far as being female, it’s not unheard of. Last time she checked, almost five percent of North American Alphas were female or non-binary, so it’s not like she’s some sort of unicorn, and definitely doesn’t warrant the amount of attention she tends to get. 

Sighing, she locks her computer. “Hey, could you pass me that?” She gestures toward a small stack of parcels by the door, then rummages in her desk drawer for a box cutter. 

Poe obliges, examining the shipping labels on each as he passes them over. “Hmmmmm Sheringham, Arbutus, Sons of Vancouver...these look like the samples we ordered at BC Distilled. Which do you want first?”

BC Distilled is the province’s premier (and only) craft spirits festival, and one of Rey’s favourite annual events. This year, she closed down the bar for the day to let the staff wander around exhibitors and sample the goods. She tries to buy local when she can, which is probably another reason why the hipsters love her bar so much, and fortunately most of the 65 attending exhibitors had amazing product. 

“Mmmmm I don’t care,” she hums, then quickly adds, “Give me a gin. I want to do something new with a gin this year.”

“Gotcha. Skywalker Estates it is.”

He hands her a medium sized box with a bit of heft, indicating a few bottles at least. Carefully, she slices open the tape and peers inside to see four bottles, round and squat, sealed with natural corks bearing the distillery’s intricate coat of arms. She selects one from the box and nods with approval at their brown, kraft paper labels with metallic blue script. It’s simple, with a touch of elegance, both classy and a tiny bit subversive. The hipsters will drink it up.

Speaking of which, she grabs two shot glasses from a shelf next to her desk, and wiggles the stopper out of the bottle. Instantly, the aroma of crisp juniper and a host of other botanicals fills the small office. She sighs with pleasure, then pours herself and Poe each a scant finger. 

“Tell me what you think,” she instructs, sliding one of the glasses across her desk towards him. 

He sniffs it then takes a small sip, swirling it around in his mouth as he hums. “It’s nice,” he drawls. “Smooth, yet still distinct. Not too aggressive, but it still has quite a complex flavour.”

“No notes of Pine-Sol?” she teases. Normally, Poe isn’t a huge gin fan, due to an incident some months back with far too many Ungava tonics that resulted in notoriously Pine-Sol flavoured (and coloured) vomit. The fact that he’s returning to the Skywalker Estates product for little sips speaks to it’s palatability. 

“No, it’s nice. Almost tempting me to drink gin again.” He places his now empty glass back on the desk and waits for her reaction.

She takes a sniff. The scent is mild, slightly soapy, and fresh, like walking through a pine forest after rainfall. Her first sip reveals a smooth, almost syrupy mouthfeel, with hints of fir, lavender, and hops. It’s delightful; calm enough sip while still wild enough to hold its own in a cocktail.

“Are these all the same?” she wonders, taking another sip.

Poe rifles through the box. “Looks like it– no wait.” He pulls up another bottle, identical in shape but with no label, just a piece of painter’s tape with a date on it from around three weeks ago. “This is weird. Maybe a prototype?”

“Did they send any instructions?” She peeks in the box as well, and retrieves an index card from the bottom simply inscribed with the word ‘Enjoy!’ in intricate copperplate. 

“Okay then.” She takes the bottle from Poe and examines the outside. It appears to be professionally sealed with the same Skywalker Estates cork as the others, so she cracks it open and takes a sniff.

It’s...different. Still gin from the smell of it, but more complex, with some unusual citrus notes she can’t quite place. There’s juniper, bergamot, slight cinnamon, and maybe some yuzu, all wrapped up in a blend that’s novel yet hauntingly familiar.

“Poe, could you give this a sniff? It seems–” Her voice trails off when she sees his face, frozen in shock, eyes flicking from the bottle to her then back again. Quickly, she sets it down. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“That gin. It smells–” His face twists into a pained expression and he takes in a couple of slow breaths. “ –it smells like  _ you _ .”

“Me?” She scrunches up her nose and lifts the collar of her shirt up for a sniff. “I mean, I guess I kind of always smell like booze, but not enough that–”

“No, no, no! It smells  _ like you _ . Your scent. I r-r-remember back when you and Finn were roommates, and y-y-you–” He winces. “Sorry, can you–? It’s really strong.”

“What? Oh!” Rey grabs the cork and jiggles it back in to the neck of the bottle. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Poe rubs at his flushing cheeks with his hands, then gives her a soft smile. “It’s okay, I’m just getting close, you know.”

“Right.”

“Right.” Grabbing the gardenia candle on her desk, he sticks it to his nose and takes another calming breath. “Okay. Anyways, as I was saying, I remember your scent from back when you and Finn were roommates, before the bar. You used to leave your gym bag by the door and, yeah.” He points a trembling finger accusingly at the bottle. “It’s that. One hundred percent.”

She shakes her head, skeptical. “You’re crazy.” Holding the bottle up to her nose, she takes another sniff, opening up her sinuses and engaging the roof of her mouth so the flavours stick to her soft palate. Juniper and bergamot, cinnamon, soft citrus, maybe some nutmeg? 

But then she takes in a deeper gulp, closing her eyes and there,  _ there,  _ she smells it: she’s twelve years old again, in the foster home, burying her face in her pillow because she’s triggered her foster sister’s heat. Linen, ozone, the crackle of black pepper in the nostrils; she’s in university, her tongue sliding against some Beta’s lips, and all she feels is emptiness on the inside. Deep, clinging musk; she’s just finished a game of field hockey and she’s trying to ignore the heated stares of half of her teammates. 

She opens her eyes to find Poe staring back at her, a smug grin on his face. “See?”

“I-I-I...can you give me a minute?”

He nods, then backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. Rey unzips her backpack that she keeps on a hook in her office and retrieves the packet of baby wipes she uses for emergencies, like when she’s just been at the gym and doesn’t have time to shower. With a grimace, she takes a wipe and uses it to scrub off the layer of blocking deodorant at the intersection of her neck and shoulder. It’s part of the daily routine she’s adopted since buying the bar. Even with standard suppressants, a bit of her natural scent is present on her glands, so the extra layer of protection ensures that her pheromones at least don’t get her any unwanted attention. 

Once the area is clean, she gently presses on her scent gland. A twinge of pleasure runs down her spine. Sighing softly, she rubs at the gland, comforted by the familiarity of her fingers working at the sensitive skin, until she suddenly becomes aware of the fact that she’s still in her office during working hours, with Poe waiting on the other side of the door. She brings her fingers to her nose, sniffs, and  _ yes– _

“You were right,” she announces, barging out of her office after applying a new swipe of deodorant.

“Of  _ course _ I was right.” Poe taps his right nostril. “The nose knows.”

She fans her door open and closed a few times to air out the room before inviting him back in. “So what do you think?” she wonders. “It’s got to be a coincidence, eh?”

He examines the handwritten tape label on the bottle. “Nah, Rey, it’s too close. It’s literally you, distilled and poured into a bottle. I mean, I’ve heard of some companies that claim to replicate the scents of celebrities or whatever, but this... _ this…” _

“I wonder if this is some sort of program they’re doing? Replicating scents? But how–?” 

“Like, are they  _ stalking _ you or something? There’s no possible way someone could replicate a scent from one sniff. Maybe they got it off of something you touched, like a pen or a bottle?” 

It was almost a month ago, but she can still recall most of her time at BC Distilled. “I’m pretty sure there was some old guy at the Skywalker Estates booth. We talked, I think? He took my info though, I didn’t write anything down there, and he definitely didn’t mention  _ this. _ ” 

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Poe shrugs. “It’s you, to a T. Can’t be a coincidence. That old guy has some crazy skills. Either that, or he’s a stalker.”

She waits until the bar is closed and everyone else has gone home before sitting down at her computer. Pulling up Chrome, she Googles Skywalker Estates Distillery and finds only a bare bones Facebook page that gives an address and not much else. No branding, no FAQs, not even an online shop, just an address on Saltspring Island and a phone number for inquiries. She debates calling, but instead opens a new tab and checks for the first ferry sailing tomorrow morning from Tsawwassen.

*

Balancing an overfilled paper cup of soft serve in one hand, she uses the other to fire off a quick text to Finn explaining that she’s taking the next two days off for a ‘business trip’ but should be back with plenty of enough time to account for Poe’s heat leave. He responds with a line of question marks, to which she sends a picture of the endless ocean horizon from the ferry’s deck.

The first thing she notices when she steps of the ferry is the smell. It hits her like a bus, the mixture of Alpha, Omega, even super ripe Beta bodies, all swirled together in a soup of organic pheromones, unsuppressed as Nature intended it. It’s a lot to get used to; Rey physically recoils and has to take a few gulps of fresh sea air before can manage to step off of the dock and make her way to the collection of small red buildings on the shoreline. 

Despite its small size, the island is bustling with activity. Artisans are set up with stands and easels selling their wares, mixed in with foragers offering handwoven baskets of curious looking mushrooms and bags of ‘herbs’. She bats away the advances of an over enthusiastic hippie selling hand blown bongs, then heads down the narrow, tree lined road in the supposed direction of Skywalker Estates. 

The air smells fresher further from the market. Rey smiles and hitches her backpack higher on her shoulder, the sun beating down on her face as gravel crunches beneath her well worn running shoes. Like Google predicted, it only takes her 13 minutes to reach Skywatcher Estates, indicated by a well worn wooden sign propped up against a rickety fence.

It’s a small storefront, painted blue, sun bleached and salt stained like it’s been there for a hundred years. Barely half a kilometre from the beach, it’s got a tiny parking lot and not much else to indicate it’s a place of business, aside from the weathered wood barn next to the shop that most likely houses the still.

The action of opening the chipped paint door rings a tiny brass bell above her head. Rey smiles at the quaintness of it all. From its interior, she can tell that the shop used to be a private home, with the retail section set up in the dining room and parlour. Former bookshelves, built into the wall and covered in what appears to be many decades worth of oil based paint, now house rows of identical bottles of gin, labelled like the three in Rey’s office. At the back sits a dark wooden counter, hosting a broad chested, dark haired man who is currently engrossed in his morning newspaper.

Rey smiles, and wiggles her fingers in greeting. “Hey!"

The man behind the counter gives her a small nod, then resumes reading his newspaper as if she weren’t there. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed at this obvious Alpha’s attempt at intimidation. 

“Hello. I’m, um, looking for the owner.”

“He’s out.”

“He’s out,” she parrots. “Do you know when he’ll be back in?”

The man shrugs, eyes still locked on his newspaper. 

Rey resists the urge to bare her teeth. Who does this guy think he is, and who even  _ reads _ the newspaper anymore? “Well, maybe you can help me,” she maintains, walking up to the counter. “I was wondering who–”

A cloud of acrid, artificial cologne wafts over her and she coughs, almost  _ gags _ on the stench. It’s reminiscent of a high school locker room, or walking through the perfume department in a department store. 

The man, seemingly unmoved by her reaction, flips the page of his newspaper. “You were saying?”

She shakes her head, struggling to clear the scent from her nostrils. It’s not just a cheap aftershave, not the way it’s sticking to the roof of her mouth and making her eyes water. It must be some sort of industrial strength blocker, mixed with synthetic perfumes to mask the chemical odour. Most Alpha medical professionals use something like this, but without all of the added fragrance. As far as Rey’s concerned, the bleach smell would be better; nothing is as bad as this foul smelling tar that she’ll likely have to launder out of her clothes. “Yes, I was–” she manages to choke out. “I was wondering who mixes the botanicals for your gin.”

“Why?”

“ _ Why?” _ She turns and muffles a sneeze in her sleeve. “Excuse me. Yes, I-sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Rey, the proprietor of The Antilles in Gastown.”

She extends her hand. The man’s eyes flick to her, but he makes no move to shake it.

Awkwardly, she shoves her hand into the pocket of her jean shorts. “I received a shipment of spirits from here, which contained an unnamed bottle of gin with a very unique flavour profile. I wanted to ask the owner about the process of distilling it, and how he came up with that particular blend.”

“All of our stock is over there.” He waves his hand at the shelves. 

“No, I’m sorry, you must have misunderstood me.” She steps closer, prompting the man to raise his newspaper until it’s just under his eyes. “This wasn’t your regular stock, it was something else. Something custom.”

“You must be mistaken.” The man’s voice is muffled behind his newspaper. “We don’t offer any custom blends.”

“It was in the same shipment as three bottles of your standard gin,” she insists through gritted teeth. “Skywalker Estates Classic, with juniper, lavender, fir, laurel, coriander. Touch of hops.” Her fingers itch, she’s  _ dying _ to rip that newspaper out of his stupid hands, squash it into a ball, and throw it at his big dumb head. “But the fourth bottle was different. Different notes: pepper, bergamot, yuzu too I think. Nothing like any other gin I’ve seen on the market, and I would like to know more about it. Where is the owner?  _ Tell Me. Now. _ ”

It slips out before she can stop it, just a sliver of an Alpha command that makes her words vibrate with authority. Immediately, she steps back, her hands flying over her mouth as her life flashes before her eyes. Commands are illegal in the strictest sense, lumped in with the usage of ketamine and other ‘date rape’ drugs. She could be fined for this, even potentially imprisoned if the man decides to press charges further. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “So,  _ so _ sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Luke’s down at the coastline, collecting ingredients. Just go out the front door, around the back, then follow the yellow dock. You’ll see him.”

The newspaper doesn’t even flutter. Rey stands stock still, staring. “Thank you.”

The man coughs. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t mention the attempted command, so she doesn’t push her luck. Without wasting another second on the man, she turns around and heads back to the door. Her hand is on the knob when she hears a soft, “ _ Did you like it _ ?”

“S-sorry?” She looks back at the counter.

The man has set down his newspaper, and is staring at her with earnest brown eyes. “Did you like it?” he repeats. “The mystery gin?”

“Like it?” She didn’t really consider whether she had liked it at all. On second thought, she never actually tasted it, too shocked by the scent to fully appreciate its flavour. “It was...familiar.”

“Hmmm.” The man nods and runs his hand through his hair, releasing another wave of acrid odour into the room. “Well, that’s something.”

“I guess so.”

Her gut twists as he just  _ stares _ at her, vulnerable earnestness schooled back into blank impassivity. She’s encountered Alphas like this before, who treat life like their own personal pissing contest. Self consciously, she rubs at her neck, exposing her gland and expressing just a bit of her natural scent in the air, then runs that same hand against the wooden door frame. Aggressively scenting spaces is not her usual  _ modus operandi _ , but there’s something about this Alpha that pisses her off and makes her want to show off, just a little.

It does the job. He bristles, gritting his teeth, and picks his newspaper back up. “Have a nice day,” he grunts as she flutters her fingers in a mocking wave.  

The salt air is extra refreshing after being pickled in perfume and blockers. Rey sighs with relief, then turns the corner around the shop and heads towards the shoreline. Off in the distance, she can make out a brown robed lump that must be Luke Skywalker foraging in the wild grass along the coast. She’s about twenty feet away when she’s hit by a wave of his scent. It’s not  _ unpleasant _ , just not appealing to her personally; dry dirt, moss, the tang of dry saltwater, with a heavy musk undercurrent that whispers Alpha, but one that’s a bit past his prime. It lingers on the air, mixing with the odour of seaweed and slight brininess of the beach.

He’s hunched over a patch of stringy yellow flowers when she approaches. “What are you collecting?” she inquires, by way of announcing herself.

To his credit, he continues his work undisturbed, his fingers deftly tracing the stalks of the plants and pinching off seed heads. “Wild fennel,” he rasps. Unceremoniously, he reaches out and grabs her hand, into which he deposits three tiny seeds.

Rey stares at them, then up at his grizzled face. “Do I-do I eat them?”

He stares back. Tilting his head to the side, his blue eyes go wide with amusement. “Well, yeah. Go on, they’re not going to kill you.”

The seeds crunch under her teeth, releasing a heady, anise flavour that’s lighter than she expected. “It’s almost...grassy?” She works to find the proper words. “It’s got some liquorice to it, but not in an overbearing way.”

“It plays well with others,” he explains. “Has a green bite to it that compliments the juniper. I’ll be adding it to my next batch.”

“Wonderful.” She extends her hand. “I’m Rey Johnson, the owner of The Antilles. It’s a bar, in Gastown.”

Luke shakes it, his own hand rough and calloused. “Luke Skywalker. The Antilles, eh? I’ve heard a lot about that place.”

She chuckles, nervously. “All good, I hope.”

“Drinks are good, fresh ingredients. Not too overpriced, despite its popularity.”

“Have you been?”

“No, no. Don’t get off the islands much these days.” He shrugs. 

“You were at BC Distilled though, right?” Rey steps a bit closer and gives him a dazzling smile. “That’s how I learned about your product. I think we spoke briefly?”

Frowning, Luke picks the head off of another fennel plant. “Right, of course. I did attend, yes. Too busy for my taste, but my sister told me it would be good for the business. She cares about that side of things while I would rather sit out here and pick weeds all day.” Staring off into the distant horizon, he shrugs again. “This was my father’s distillery, you know. He made some great stuff, but it got to him in the end.” He brings his free hand to his mouth and mimes drinking with an upturned thumb and pinkie.

Rey nods. “Yes. Mine as well.”

“I resented this place for a while. Everything is a bit too free, too easily accessible. But now that I’m older, it’s appealing to come here. Kind of cast off the shackles of everyday life, you know.”

The semi truck of scent that attacked her the moment she stepped on the island springs to mind, and she laughs. “That’s what they say about the island lifestyle here. People here are so free, so liberated. It’s refreshing, to be honest.” She pauses, weighing her next question in her mind. “I’m sorry if it’s rude to ask, but why does your employee wear such strong blockers? It doesn’t seem common here.”

“My employee?” Luke stares at her blankly for a moment, then his face cracks into a wild grin. “Oh  _ Ben _ ? He’s my nephew, he–” His face falls as he struggles to find the right words. “ – he doesn’t like all of the attention he gets. Would rather go through life without so many...expectations.”

“Hmmm, I get that.” Truly, she does. She tries her best, what with the blocking deodorant and other precautions, but it’s impossible to deny her designation. It’s part of who she is, unwanted attention, control issues, the inexplicable need to hit things, all wrapped up in a cocktail of hormones and pheromones that make her an unstoppable force in the good times, and a bullheaded recluse in the bad. Not that it excuses how he acted to her earlier, but if there’s anything Rey understands, it’s the ennui of a fellow Alpha who doesn’t feel comfortable with the stereotypes of their designation. 

“Does he normally work for you, or is he just helping out?” she asks. 

“Just helping out right now. He lives in Victoria, but comes over to mind the shop when I’m foraging and lends a hand when I go to markets or fulfill orders.”

An idea pops into her head, weirdly half-formed. “Was he with you when you went to BC Distilled?” she wonders. “I’m afraid I can’t recall.”

Luke’s shoulders stiffen and his scent shifts slightly. It’s just enough for her to detect an acrid note of scorched grass, betraying his sudden nervousness. “Ah, yes. Yes, Ben was there. Helped me set up, manned the booth over lunch, those sorts of things.” 

Emboldened by his change in demeanor, Rey presses on. “I’m asking because, well, it’s actually the reason I came. That is to say, I ordered a few bottles of your gin at the festival, and when they arrived they came with something extra.”

His eyes go wide. “An extra...what?”

“Oh, an extra bottle!” she exclaims. “It wasn’t a dead rat or a turd or anything.”

“Thank God.” He shakes his head and resumes his work poking around the wild grasses. “If you had told me that my nephew mailed you a severed finger or something equally disgusting, it would have killed me.”

“No, no, nothing like that. It was–” She pauses, unsure of how to describe it. “It was another gin, of a sort I suppose. And it smelled...it smelled like me.”

She lets her words hang there with no further explanation. Luke’s hand stills. “Like your scent?” he clarifies. 

“Yeah. My Omega employee pointed it out. It’s very...accurate.” She tamps down her nervousness and continues. “Judging by your surprise, I’m guessing it wasn’t you.”

He lets out a sigh. “No, it was not.”

“And there’s no one else who does the distilling here? No other employees.”

“None but Ben. And he mostly just dabbles, as a hobby.”

“So it  _ was  _ him.” She recalls his disgruntled nature and outright rude behaviour. “But that makes no sense. How could he scent me enough to distill something so accurate, yet I didn’t even notice him? And why on Earth would an Alpha do something like that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have been unclear.” Luke crouches down, spreading the wild grasses to reveal moist loam beneath. “Ben’s not an Alpha, he’s an Omega. Oh look, clover!"

His sandy blonde hair disappears in the grasses, but Rey doesn’t even notice. She feels like a wide hot poker has just been stuck in her gut, hooking her insides and pulling her in the direction of the blue painted storefront, back to that man, that  _ Omega _ , behind the desk, hiding behind his newspaper. 

“T-that’s impossible,” she splutters. “H-he’s not an Omega, I would have scented him if he was.”

“See, that’s where the metric tonne of blockers and the best suppressants money can buy come in handy.” Luke’s voice is muffled amidst the weeds. “Keeps Alphas from sniffing around, enough that Ben could work in an office environment for almost 10 years. Until he was outed, that is. Also keeps him from having to smell everyone else. Kid’s got quite the nose on him, you could probably tell.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She hates the way she sounds, shaky and lost, not like the big strong Alpha she’s supposed to be. No wonder the Omega didn’t listen to her, no wonder  _ Ben _ – 

“I thought it was obvious.” Luke looks up at her through the grass. “I don’t know what kind of stunt he’s trying to pull, but I assure you, Ben isn’t the type of Omega to lie back and  _ take it _ , you know? He’s gotten shit from a lot of people in his life, myself included, and the last thing he needs is to be chained to some Alpha for the rest of his life, just because she happens to smell like pepper and sunshine, or whatever. No offence,” he adds, sarcastically. 

Luckily for him, Rey’s not cognizant enough to be offended. Her mind is already running back, barging through the door, tearing his damn newspaper in half and- _ and _ – 

And what? She doesn’t know him, much less truly know herself at this point. She’s barely ever flirted with an Omega, how does she expect to approach one for...whatever this is? Especially one she’s already met and apparently made a piss-poor first impression to. Suddenly, she’s aware of the weight of her backpack digging into her too-narrow shoulders, fatiguing her small, weak, sweat stained body. She can barely handle lugging twenty pounds for a few hours, how on  _ earth _ is she going to handle taking care of a brick house Omega with apparent attitude issues.

“I can see you’re panicking.” 

Rey shakes her head to clear it, then stares in front of her at Luke, who’s standing now with his botanical haul bundled up in the front of his robe like a baby. “I’m not panicking!” she insists, voice quavering. 

“That’s what a panicking person would say. Look, just because Ben’s an Omega and you’re an Alpha, and you’ve never encountered someone who may potentially complete you in this way before, doesn’t mean you have to run up there and propose to him with a diamond ring before having at least one civil conversation. You’re both adults– I mean– “ He squints at her suspiciously. “ –you  _ are _ an adult, right?”

“I own a bar! I have to be an adult. I’m 22,” she adds, a bit petulantly. 

“Oh, 22! Such a sage, with such wisdom!” he mocks. “Look Rey, here’s the thing: I’ve been there. I’ve chased after Omegas without knowing what I was going to do if I caught them.”

Rey throws her hands up in the air. “And look at you now!”

“And look at me now! Exactly! I’m  _ alone _ . Just because you’re an Alpha doesn’t mean you’re equipped to be in a relationship with someone. And yes, I know, I  _ know _ –” He tilts his head, acquiescing, “ – this is  _ way _ too early to be talking about a relationship, especially one based on a singular negative encounter and a fleeting sniff at a booze festival, yet here we are. Trust me, there’s been countless mated pairs who started screwing on way less.” 

Abruptly, he stops talking, plunging both of them into awkward silence. Rey takes in a deep breath and tries to calm the mounting panic bubbling in her veins. “Well then,” she says. “What shall I do now?”

Then she turns and starts walking back up to the shop, because she  _ knows  _ what she needs to do. Even though he was an asshole to her, and even though she’s not aware of any of his redeeming qualities (if they do exist), she has to see him again. Has to talk to him, has to hear him say her name, has to hopefully catch a hint of his scent through all five layers of his blockers because it  _ can’t _ be a coincidence that’s brought her here. Something about her scent stuck with him, and now she has to give him a chance to stick with her. 

She can hear Luke clomping up behind her, his heavy robes catching on the grass. “By all means, go ahead!” he calls after her a bit breathlessly. “Go sniff each others’ glands and fall madly in love.”

“I’m not in love!” she yells back at him. 

“Of  _ course _ you’re not!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t love someone I’ve barely met!” The wind picks up, whipping her hair around her face as she struggles up the slight incline. “Besides, he’s an asshole!”

“But you love assholes, don’t you?” Luke chuckles. “I can tell. You’re a sucker for those tall, dark, and grumpy types!” 

The short walk feels like it’s taken a lifetime when Rey turns the corner in front of the shop, and sees the front door with the sign flipped over. 

_ CLOSED. _

The door is locked. Frantically, she jiggles the knob, peering inside until a panting Luke places a gentle hand on her arm. “Here, let me.” He fishes out an ancient looking ring of keys from somewhere in his robe, and deftly unlocks the door. 

“Hello?” She darts inside the shop. “Ben?”

A slightly crumpled newspaper was left on the back counter, opened to the funny pages. On it lies a sticky note with a brief message written in impeccable handwriting:

_ Luke, _

_ I went home. _

_ -B _

With shaking fingers, she lifts the note to her nose and inhales. 

_ Juniper. Pine needles. Resin. Black ink. Green cardamom. _

_ And clove. _

 

  
  



	2. Sweet Clover and Fennel

Ben’s not sure what came first, the female Alpha or the male Omega. It’s a chicken and egg situation, where one was born out of necessity for the other, because it’s not normal,  _ he’s  _ not normal, as his friend Hux reminds him at least once a week.

“See,  _ that’s  _ an Omega,” he purrs when they’re out together, constantly pointing out the most voluptuous female Omegas who positively reek of sex and fertility. Never mind that Hux is a Beta in a relationship with the most stereotypical female Alpha Ben has ever known, who also happens to be the _ only _ female Alpha Ben’s really ever known.

Hux jokes about that too. About Ben coveting his six foot three Alpha girlfriend, with her commanding voice and allegedly magical pussy. “It’s like a whole other experience,” he claims. “Sex with an Alpha...it’s like their cunts are programmed to wring the life out of your dick in the best way possible.”

Ben knows. At least, he knows  _ on paper _ how it works; where male Alphas have perfect dicks that knot, female Alphas have perfect pussies that clench. Sex with them is apparently a transcendent experience, one that he’s never been privy to personally due to the fact that they only make up .5 percent of the general population.

Which is why he’s  _ literally  _ floored when he smells something, barely a whisper of a scent, that makes his blood pressure spike and his head throb, right as he’s helping Uncle Luke string up his hand painted sign at BC Distilled. He drops the sign mid-tie and dives to the ground like he’s playing an impromptu game of hide and go seek as Luke watches with a raised eyebrow.

“Do you smell that?” Ben hisses, head ducked under the table.

Luke frowns and takes a couple of experimental sniffs before announcing, “I smell a lot of things.”

Ben groans. “The Alpha,” he clarifies through gritted teeth. “There’s an Alpha here, and she’s—“

“ _ She’s _ ?” That grabs Luke’s attention. Straightening up, he scans the expo hall, bright blue eyes sparkling. “Hmmm, I don’t see anyone that really sticks out, and I don’t smell her specifically. Not surprising though.”

Ben’s always had a nose for scents, more so than most Alphas or Omegas. It’s made life a living hell sometimes, but he usually manages, swathing himself in a thick soup of fragrance that numbs his nose to anyone else. But this—this person, this  _ Alpha _ , has a scent unlike anything he’s encountered before. It’s suppressed, but still strong enough to eke it’s way up his nostrils and burrow into his psyche.

Juniper. Bergamot. Fresh yuzu, lingering tonka bean, milky tea, and a sharp rasp of cinnamon, enveloped in sunlight warmed parchment and cracked black pepper. It’s so fitting that here, at a craft spirits festival, he scents someone who smells like the best shot of gin he could ever imagine.

“Are you sure you can’t see her?” he groans into the concrete floor.

“You’ve got to tell me who I’m looking for, Ben. There’s a lot of women here.”

“Just—“ He grits his teeth, trying to corral the tornado of butterflies that’s just erupted in his gut. “Just give me a second.”

He takes in another slow, modulated breath, and the scent rushes down his throat, stoking the fire in his belly. It feels like a perfect, firm stroke of his cock except, instead of his cock, it’s gripping his soul and he  _ shudders  _ with pleasure, pressing his face to the ground for some sort of relief. 

With a shaking hand on the table, he manages to hoist himself back up to a standing position. His head is spinning, glands itching for relief, but he stands his ground, eyes scanning the crowd for something, some glimpse of the originator of this perfect scent. Luke was right, there’s tons of women of various shapes and sizes, but she’s got to be tall, right? And muscular?

Ben used to imagine that his mate would be tall. Still feminine, but big enough to knock him onto his ass and keep him there if he needed it. That was back when he still thought about having a mate, before he grabbed his own destiny by the balls and filled himself with protein powder and blockers. He was tired,  _ is tired _ , of sitting around waiting for some gargantuan Amazon to drag him back to her den, and decided instead to live his life alone.

He’d given up hope, and now here he is, examining faces in a crowd with a scent embedded in his brain. Luke’s right, there are a lot of people here already, even though the festival hasn’t technically started. The excitement is palpable; already there’s crowds gathering in front of certain booths, making small talk and examining the wares.

And then he sees her. Shorter than expected, freckled, pretty, and far too slim to be an Alpha, but there’s something about her demeanour that attracts him. She’s talking animatedly, using her hands to gesture to different booths as her eyes sparkle under the fluorescent lighting, and she’s absolutely  _ luminous _ . 

Then she whips her hair over her shoulder and barely,  _ just barely _ , brushes up against her scent gland, and his suspicions are instantly confirmed. Citrus and spice shoots up his nostrils, causing his heart to skip a beat. His knees twitch, so he reaches out to steady himself on the table as he tracks her across the hall. How could such a glorious, heady,  _ Alpha _ scent belong to such a small, bright firecracker of a woman? 

She’s surrounded by a small group of people, all smiling and chatting. They’re all friendly and obviously know each other quite well, but their body language is deferential to her, like she’s their boss or something.

_ Your Alpha is a strong leader. She will take care of you and your family. _

He moans and mashes his face with his hands. Why is he like this? Why does his biology force him into a raging ball of feelings at the slightest whiff of a scent?

His eyes roam the booth, suddenly fixated on every single tiny detail that needs to be changed. The sign,  _ god _ , Luke’s ugly hand painted sign. It makes the booth look like a five year old’s first lemonade stand. And Luke himself, with his soggy peat moss scent and scraggly grey hair, wearing a Baja hoodie he’s had since 1994, what will she think of him? At least the labelling on the bottles is nice,  _ that _ he made sure of.

Oh god, his face. He hasn’t shaved in two days; he probably looks like a serial killer. He rubs his hand against his cheek and winces at the roughness,  _ why  _ would she ever want to kiss him when his skin is like literal sandpaper? And his scent, these insane, processed blockers that make him smell like the overgrown offspring of a bottle of bleach and a urinal cake, she’s going to think he’s a fucking nutcase when she smells him.

Is there somewhere to shower? There’s a gym down the road, he’s  _ sure  _ of it, and he could probably make it there, shower, and make it back in ten minutes flat, but then he’ll have to dry his hair so it doesn’t look like he just showered, but his hair is  _ notoriously _ frizzy when he does anything but air dry it. Does she look hungry? She’s probably not, since she seems like an amazing provider, but he should find some food, right? He should bake her a pie or blend a smoothie for her. Or soup,  _ everyone  _ likes soup. There must be a stove around here somewhere–

“Earth to Ben.”

He whirls around to face Luke, who has managed to tie up the sign himself, albeit a bit crookedly, and his now lounging up against a stack of crates, watching him. “Is that her?” he asks, craning his neck in the direction of the Alpha and her friends. 

“Mmmhmm.” Ben can only nod.

“She looks lovely.” Luke gives him a small smile. “Now, are you going to put that thing down?”

Ben looks down at the cardboard box of Dixie cups he has inexplicably clutched to his chest. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he stammers, placing them on the table next to their sample bottles of gin.

Luke reaches over and moves to put a hand on his shoulder, then reconsiders and stuffs it into the front pocket of his hoodie.”You gonna be okay kid?”

“I-I—“ With mournful eyes, Ben looks over at the Alpha. She’s so soul meltingly beautiful that he can’t look away, but every second he stares at her makes him feel like his heart is being ripped out of his chest. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.” Luke glowers in the Alpha’s general direction. “Just let me know if it’s too much, okay?”

Nodding, Ben sits down behind the table, counting every step hi- _ the  _ Alpha takes in his direction. He estimates she’s at least eighty-three steps away, which should give his brain enough time to figure itself out so that he doesn’t make a complete fool of himself. 

His uncle huffs behind him and he knows without looking that the older man is crossing his arms in front of his chest and scowling. He means well, but it still makes Ben nervous, like it did when he was growing up. Being raised by an Alpha mom and her Alpha twin brother meant that his childhood was filled with fluctuating moments of overbearance and neglect, plus a sprinkling of gifts and stories from his mostly absent Beta father. His mother always wanted to shelter him from the bad parts of life, but in doing so she neglected to equip him with the knowledge he would need thrive as an adult.

As for Luke– he tried filling in where both Ben’s mother and father were absent, but none of them truly knew what life would be like for a young Omega boy. Ben constantly felt too needy, too emotional, too eager to give love and affection even to those who very obviously didn’t deserve it. That kind of behaviour made it easy for others to take advantage of him, which happened often enough that his relationships with his family became stained with guilt, on both sides.

Ben peers up at the Alpha through his hair. She doesn’t smell like any Alpha he’s encountered before, and definitely doesn’t look like one. Watching her makes him feel nervous, yes, but also warm and light, like he’s floating on a cloud on a hot summer day. Though Luke means well, there’s no need for his posturing. 

“She’s not going to hurt me,” Ben breathes, just loud enough for his uncle to hear.

Luke lets out a gruff  _ humph _ . “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” 

He has enough grace to look slightly chastened. “I suppose my opinion is not the only deciding factor.”

“You think so?” Ben cocks his head to the side. She’s only six booths away now, chatting animatedly with a tall, dark haired man who seems like he’s trying to sell her some bottles of craft amaretto. 

“Well, I should think that you would at least respect my opinion on the worthiness of a potential Alpha.” Luke rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I know what I’m talking about or anything.”

“Oh, of course.” Now she’s five booths away, munching on a small cup of seed speckled crackers as she pursues some flavoured vodkas. “Because you’re the expert on all Alphas, ever.”

“Growing up in an Alpha dominated family, present company excluded, gave me some insights yes.”

“Then please, share.” Four booths away, and seemingly disinterested in the organic ginger beer. Now three booths. His pulse quickens.

“Well, she seems friendly.” Luke pitches his voice lower and quieter. “She’s small though, and probably scrappy. May not mix well with your bad temper.”

“My temper isn’t–” Ben bites his tongue, tamping down his frustration. “ – it’s gotten better.”

“Couldn’t have gotten worse.”

She’s only two booths away. Ben’s eyes dart around their little stand, with it’s shabby sign and even shabbier hosts, and he panics. It’s not right,  _ not enough _ , definitely not enough for such a bubbly, beautiful, ray of sunshine Alpha that probably has a horde of Omegas eating out of the palm of her hand. He’s not enough for her; he’s nervous, unprepared, his jeans have stains and– is that a  _ rip _ in the knee?

He knows he’s a mess. All of the male Omegas he’s seen before, either in person or online, have been impeccable. They take care of themselves and their bodies, eat clean, moisturize,  _ exfoliate  _ (whatever that is) and he’s just...not like that. He’s tall and coarse and rough and irritating, not well spoken or alluring at all, with a sense of style that consists of black t-shirts and apparently ripped jeans. He’d be lying if he claimed it wasn’t by design; he’s always felt more comfortable masquerading as a brutish Alpha male, but deep down inside, that’s not who he is. 

No, he  _ wants _ to be cared for. Wants to be cherished, and to cherish someone in return. Wants to raise children, feed them, take them on adventures while his Alpha is at work. There’s nothing he dreams of more than having a partner and settling down, seeking that ultimate completeness that he can only have with another human being, someone who will love him for who he is, ripped jeans and all.

And now...he’s not ready.

“I have to go,” he blurts out, jumping up from the chair.

“Go? Where?” Luke stares at him like he’s gone insane. “Ben, she’s right there!”

“I-I can’t.” Not yet. Not now. 

He doesn’t hang around for his uncle’s response. Instead, he grabs his jacket and sneaks out of the hall, jogging down the street until he reaches a small indie bookstore. It looks like a haven, a place where he can calm down and catch his breath but, immediately upon opening the door, he’s assaulted by the scent of old books and all he can think of is  _ her. _

*

By some act of God, Ben manages to survive the next few hours in Vancouver. He eats some sushi, takes in a few art galleries, and only thinks about the Alpha every other minute. A bit after lunchtime he assumes the coast is clear, so he slinks back into the hall and arrives at Luke’s booth, tail tucked between his legs. 

His uncle is not impressed, to say the least. “I have to pee, Ben.”

“Yes, that’s why I came back.”

“I’ve had to pee for the last half an hour.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “This is why people have cell phones, Uncle Luke.”

“Ha! Do you  _ want  _ me to get testicular cancer? Don’t answer that.” Luke winces as he stiffly gets up from the chair. “And you didn’t have to be gone for quite so long. Your girl went for lunch with her friends about an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Ben tries, and fails, to look nonchalant. “D-did she come by here?”

Luke frowns. “She did, and she ordered some gin. Can’t recall much though, there was a big rush of people right after.”

His clipboard of orders sits on the table. Careful to not look too eager, Ben walks over and glances at the list of names.

“She was the first one, right? It’s says here that’s Rey Johnson, from The Antilles on the mainland?”

“Hmm, maybe?” Luke looks over his shoulder and squints. “I don’t remember.”

Ben groans. “That’s what you get from smoking too much BC Bud before events.”

“Hey! It’s legal!”

“It’s legal  _ now.” _

“Fine, Mr. Fun Police.” Luke taps the list with his finger. “Why do you even care? I thought you weren’t ready for an Alpha yet.”

Ben’s face flames. “I’m not! I just thought—uh, just in case. Anyways, I thought  _ you _ had to go to the bathroom.”

“Right, thanks for the reminder.” Luke elbows him in the ribs then totters off, leaving Ben to glare at the list of names and addresses as if he could intimidate it into confirming the name of the mysterious Alpha. His uncle said she was the first order, but he’s never heard of a woman named Rey before, and he’s not willing to get attached to any personal details without knowing for sure. Not that he  _ is _ getting attached, because that would be ridiculous, even if he is pretty sure the scent of tea leaves in gin is now inexorably linked to her in his psyche.

Frowning at anyone who deigns to approach the booth, he pulls out his phone and Googles ‘The Antilles’. A bunch of news articles pop up, reviews by different sites and local newspapers that all seem positive by their headlines. He clicks on the first link listed, which leads him to an automatically playing slideshow of artistically shot liquor bottles, delicious looking food, and young, hot people laughing and having a good time. The address on the bottom of the page matches the one on Luke’s list, so Ben feels confident enough to navigate to the ABOUT section with a click.

_ It’s her _ . The first photo on the page is a pretentious black and white photo of the Alpha, looking radiant in a pale pressed shirt and dark blazer. She looks regal, bright, and amazingly confident, like one of those fierce women on the front of self help books. ‘REY JOHNSON- Owner’ is the caption at the bottom, followed by a short bio that Ben devours with sparkling eyes. She’s self-made; an orphan who scrounged for bottles while living on the street, then bounced from foster home to foster home, picking up tips in bars under the table until she aged out of the system and completed her bartending certification. The Antilles was a dive when she first purchased it, and in just three short years it’s become the talk of the city.

_ Your Alpha is intelligent and successful. Go to her now, and she’ll know how to take care of you.  _

He catches himself scanning the crowd for a glimpse of her. No,  _ no,  _ that was not the point of this exercise. Omegas obsessing over Alphas is only cute in young adult novels and on the CW, and he is living in neither at this moment. Besides, he had the chance to meet her and he bailed. He’s not ready, and more importantly he’s sure that she probably isn’t ready to meet him. 

But what to do? He fixates back on the screen of his phone, zooming in until her smiling face takes up most of his screen. Shamefully, he saves a screenshot and immediately moves it to his hidden folder, then quickly switches back to the bar’s website and notes the address. It’s only about fifteen minutes by car and he’s so,  _ so  _ tempted to hop in Luke’s rusty old cube van and speed over, but he hates driving in Vancouver and Luke’s still not back from the toilet, so instead he just slumps down on the creaky folding chair and tries to resist opening his hidden folder.

He fails.

*

It’s a bit cool in the old barn that houses the Skywalker Estates still. As always, a thin layer of condensation has collected over the uneven stone walls, giving the space a humid, muggy atmosphere. Ben rolls his thumbs over the brown and blue label he’s affixing, careful to smooth out the tiny bubbles that form against the glass, then places the bottle down on the counter next to thirty four others. “How many more will you need?”

Luke looks up from his clipboard. “Probably another batch at least. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just wondering whether we need to run one or two more batches to fulfill the order.”

“No, I really don’t think two batches will be necessary.”

“Ok.” Ben hums to himself, rearranging the bottles into five neat rows of seven. The clink of the glass echoes across the old stone walls of the barn and tinkles into the rafters like bell song. “If you would like, I can run the still for the next few days so you can rest. I know you don’t like getting out much, that it takes a lot out of you.”

“It does.” Luke cocks his head to side with a soft smile that’s only a touch suspicious. “Thank you Ben.”

“You’re welcome,” Ben mumbles. 

Truthfully, it’s better this way. He likes helping Luke around the shop, with bottling, labelling, and packaging product as his uncle totters away at the still, but there’s nothing better than production, than sitting by himself and meditating as the crisp scent of juniper rises in the air. 

The first batch he does by rote, measuring the botanicals by feel as next week’s batch of mash bubbles in the background. He dozes as the still steams, depositing a steady drip of clear alcohol out of the receiving tank. When he wakes, all he can smell is juniper, tinged with the musk of tonka and old parchment from his memory.

_ Her. _

Days pass, punctuated by distilling, diluting, bottling, plus trips back to the shop for snacks and sleep. In his spare time, he tinkers with the mason jarred spices lined up on the barn’s driftwood shelves. He rubs cassia and ceylon cinnamon between his fingers, bringing them to his nose to take in their unique odour, then comparing each to the scent locked in his brain, then does the same with five different varieties of peppercorn. He walks down to the market and persuses the fruit stands, selecting several plump citrus fruits he normally can’t get at the grocery store. Lounging in front of the still, he daydreams of Rey, despite having never met her, his brain filling in every minute detail with wishes straight from his imagination. He conjures a silky voice, soft lips, deft hands that can mix drinks as well as she can touch his–

The scent in the air changes, a tinge of oily burntness lingering in his nostrils. Jumping to his feet, Ben turns off the tap and switches the receptacle, then tests the alcohol level of the collected hearts. Every batch must be diluted to 45 percent for the Skywalker Estates Classic product, which he accomplishes using a carefully controlled tank of water.

After a fitful night’s sleep, Ben and Luke return to the distillery to bottle yesterday’s batch. It doesn’t take long; Luke’s hands deftly work the tap and the corking machine while Ben is left with the seals. There’s only a few bottles left when he casually offers. “Hey, I’ll finish up here, and clean too. Anything else you need done?”

Luke’s face twists up in a frown. “What have you done, Ben?”

“Why do you assume I’ve  _ done _ anything?” Ben huffs as he peels a label off of its sticker paper. “I was just wanting to help you clean up...and maybe use the still for a small batch experiment I’ve been thinking of.”

“Oh.”

“I saw that Sheringham uses kelp in their mix, so I wanted to try it.”

He turns away so his uncle can’t see the flush creeping across his face and colouring his ears. 

“Ooh, that does sound delightful! Kelp!” Luke dusts his hands off on his clothes, and heads to the door. “I can’t believe I’ve never thought of that.”

Ben waits until he hears the  _ thud  _ of the heavy barnwood door, then heads over to the mixing table to retrieve his hypothesized botanicals. There’s juniper of course, collected from evergreen bushes that grow in the shade of the shop. Then thick scrolls of cassia, cracked into shards. Tiny peppercorns, a pinch of tea, and some withered tonka beans join the others in the big, granite mortar, along with about a centimetre of vanilla bean and some soft straw to hopefully capture the essence of old books that rounded out her scent. 

Humming to himself, he rolls the citrus fruits against his work surface to help them release their oils, then carefully carves strips of peel and sets them aside for later. He retrieves a cheesecloth bag and lightly pounds the spices until they’re just starting to release their fragrances then, with the citrus peel, deposits them into the bag and pulls its string tight. Once he’s done, he cups the botanicals in his hands and takes a deep inhale. 

Something’s missing. The citrus is sunny, but too harsh, and it’s lacking an aspect of spice to the musk notes. Chewing on his lip, he crushes some angelica root, adds a pinch of dried white rose petals, and grates in just a touch of nutmeg, then sniffs again. Close, but still something missing.

He closes his eyes and tries to transport himself back to that first sniff, the one that broke through his blockers and imprinted itself on his heart. Yes, there, just a touch of smokiness, a hint of his Alpha’s power and resourcefulness in a tinge of fire. Immediately, he discards his previous mix of botanicals in the compost then starts a new batch, this time roasting the cassia in an old cast iron frying pan until it just begins to smoke. 

The resulting batch is  _ perfect _ , so much so that his toes actually curl when he sniffs it. It’s her, from the bright burst of citrus to the tingly rush of juniper, wrapped in a blanket of smoke and sun warmed books. With shaking hands, he deposits the little cheesecloth bag into the copper packed column of the still, hooks up the condenser, and starts siphoning in the mash water. 

Once the still is running and the levels are adjusted, he sits down on the shops’s well worn wooden stool and waits. Drip by drip, he watches the first foreshots collect in a small puddle as the acrid tang of methanol fills the air. 

Towards the end of his life, his grandfather would apparently drink this stuff as he chased a level of drunkenness that became progressively harder and harder for him to catch. He died in this room, next to this still, on the very stool Ben sits on now and, as Ben calculates the amount of runoff that’s accumulated so far, there’s a bitter poetry to him creating this symbol of his budding affections on the same spot his grandmother’s heart broke into pieces. 

He carefully collects the foreshots and sets them aside as Luke, whose thriftiness is legendary on the island, uses them to fuel his tiki torches in the summer. Next, the scent in the air turns to the nose-burningly caustic smell of acetone. Ben groans and wipes out the spice-dusted mortar with a rag, which he then holds in front of his nose. The heads always remind him of endless hours spent at the nail salon with his mother, staring at the spectrum of polish colours as she complained about his father to the technician. 

They don’t talk much, not anymore. Not after his father died and his mother, a headstrong Alpha with a massive savior complex, made it her life’s work to represent First Nations communities and their land rights in court. It’s a busy job, one that made their already strained relationship even more awkward when Ben worked at First Order Drilling for ten years. Now that he’s out of that mess he’s tempted to call her, but can never come up with the right words to say.

He drains the acetone rich runoff, then brings the still up to 76 degrees and holds it for a few minutes, just to make sure the volatile compounds have all condensed. Once the drips stop, he drains it again then raises the temperature to 80 degrees. He pulls the rag away from his nose and sniffs, tastes, rubs the distillate between his fingers until  _ yes _ , that’s it. 

She’s  _ here, _ dripping sweetly from the coil, her unique scent soaking into his fingertips and lingering in his nose. One drop, and his entire body hums to life, the room spins around him and all he can smell is  _ her, yes, Alpha.  _ He’s made countless batches of gin throughout his life, but this moment stands out as his pinnacle achievement, because this is the moment he’s created his masterpiece. 

*

He’s just finishing up the remaining orders from BC Distilled, squinting in the dim light as he tries to decipher Luke’s handwriting. Identical rows of bottles, all labelled, sealed, and bubble wrapped, just waiting to be deposited into their mailing boxes, line the countertop. Luke went to bed ages ago, but let him know beforehand that Ahsoka from down the street would be picking up the orders first thing tomorrow morning, so Ben’s determined to finish up before he retires. 

It’s always there, though, right in the corner of his vision. Incongruous, just like the others, but more exposed,  _ naked.  _ Her gin. His Alpha, bottled neatly, prim and waiting on the countertop. There’s a Skywalker Estates cork loosely laid on the neck, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to seal it after he bottled it, not yet at least. He wants,  _ needs _ , just one more sniff. Just one, right before he goes off to bed. A treat, he reasons, for finishing up the orders.

All but one of the orders are packaged up and labelled when Ben finally allows himself a smell. Just one little sniff, what harm could it do really? After all, he managed to distill the entire batch without losing his mind, so just a tiny whiff before sealing the bottle shouldn’t change anything.

With trembling fingers, he removes the cork from the bottle and brings it to his nose. It’s– it’s  _ everything _ , so much more than he remembered and more complete than he imagined. Given just a bit of time to mellow, it’s blossomed into something even more true to the scent in his head than before. It’s  _ her _ , right in front of him, held in his hands and he–

Well, he overfilled the bottle. Obviously, looking at the neck, it’s clear to see that the gin is almost right up to the top. If he were to seal it at this point, some of the liquid would leak out so-so–

So he has to taste it. Naturally. 

Just a small taste though. He doesn’t even pour out an ounce, just enough that he’s sure there’s clearance for the cork. The scent of warm citrus and sharp juniper blooms in the air as he busies himself with sealing the bottle and labelling it with the date, then he sets it aside and returns to the modest IKEA shot glass and its delectable contents.

On his nineteenth birthday, Luke sat him down and taught him how to taste gin properly. It should be gently warmed to room temperature, decanted into a sherry glass, with a mug of weak coffee on the side to cleanse the palate. A drop of gin should be deposited on the palms first and rubbed, to release the aroma into the air before slowly sipping the spirit and letting it rest on the tongue. Then, and only then, can the gin be consumed, cleansing one’s mouth after every sip of course. 

Ben does none of these things. He  _ should _ do those things, especially considering the magnitude of his creation that he’ll be tasting for the first time, but he just can’t give in to the gravitas, not without chickening out like before, so instead of taking his time, he closes his eyes and throws the gin back like it’s a shot of cheap tequila at a college frat party.

Colours explode in his vision, and he stumbles, putting a hand on the counter to steady himself as a range of tastes, scents,  _ emotions _ run through his body without warning. He feels,  _ he feels _ , like this is the first thing he’s ever truly tasted, like everything else up to this point was just sand on his tongue and cotton down his throat. His entire body  _ sings _ for this, radiant and weightless, and his brain is both manic and sedated, scrolling through every sensation as a thick calm settles in his joints. 

Shamefully, he presses the shot glass back to his lips, using his tongue to lap every last drop of the smooth, rich liquid from its crevices. He groans deeply, and the rush of oxygen reignites the fire in his veins he felt the first time he ever smelled her, his one, only,  _ Alpha _ . He stumbles, catching himself on the counter, as his blood rushes to his extremities,  _ all _ of his extremities, causing the hairs on his neck to stand erect and prompting his dick to follow suit. 

He’s– he’s  _ never  _ been this hard, never wanted so much, never  _ craved _ the touch of another so much that it’s painful. Normally his blockers dull his senses, but this ingestion has shot her scent directly into his system, past any barriers he could feebly throw up. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what everyone feels like all the time, with unfettered access to the scents of others, but he dismisses that though almost immediately. No one could feel the way he does for this scent, for _ his  _ Alpha.

His eyes flick to the now-sealed bottle. Tongue running over his lips, his hand reaches, fingers grazing the makeshift label. It would be so easy to just  _ take  _ more, to bring the smooth orifice to his mouth and gulp its contents down like a man parched, to allow her to run down his throat until he can’t see straight. He groans at the thought of it, to  _ submit _ to her, even from a distance without her knowledge, would be the greatest pleasure of his life. 

He clenches his fist on air. He can’t. For so many reasons, but mostly because he knows that if he cracks the seal, we won’t be able to stop, so instead of giving into that temptation he surrenders to another and pulls the fly of his jeans down with shaking fingers. It’s awkward to tug his pants down to the floor while still supporting himself against the counter, but he doesn’t trust his legs, not while her scent it still clouding all of his senses.

Backed up against the counter, he shoves his right hand into his underwear and  _ moans _ as his fingertips graze the over sensitive head of his cock. His other hand holds the shot glass to his mouth as his tongue continues to graze the glass, chasing her scent as he strokes himself furiously. It’s not warm enough, not wet enough, not  _ tight  _ enough, but he’s so worked up that it only takes a few feverish pumps before he’s coming in his boxers, fireworks exploding at his temples and a whisper of crisp juniper and cassia sticky in his mouth.

Then everything goes black.

*

He wakes to a fuzzy swirl of white and blue, and the sensation of a cool cloth on his forehead.

“W-wha-?” 

“Hussshhhh.” The swirls realign themselves into the form of Ahsoka, her colourful twists surrounding her head like a halo. She soaks the cloth into a pail of water on the ground, then resumes sponging his feverish head. “You doing okay, Ben? I think you had a bad trip.”

His mouth tastes weird, and all of a sudden he becomes very aware that he’s propped up on the ground of the barn, pants bunched up around his ankles, with very obvious cum stains on the front of his boxers. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I–”

“Thought you’d know by now which mushrooms are good and which are bad.” 

“N-no, it’s not that, I just–” He winces, head pounding as he struggles to come up with the exact words to describe his situation. “I was just working late last night.”

The cloth on his forehead stills. “Sampling too much product?” There’s an edge to her voice. Though she’s still lively and spry, Ahsoka’s lived on the island long enough to remember his grandfather and bear witness to his untimely end. Her voice goes low. “Do I need to talk to Luke?” 

“No, no, nothing like that, I–”

He’s hot.  _ So _ hot he’s feverish, like he’s having an allergic reaction to last night’s gin. There’s ringing in his ears and Ahsoka’s face starts swimming in front of him. 

“Y-you’re moving,” he slurs. “S-stop moving.”

His stomach feels weird. There’s a cramp in his gut like he’s eaten a bad clam, and it’s spreading up his chest, his neck, his lips.

Ahsoka’s face, already blurred, contorts further into a look of shock. “Oh no, Benny, oh no. What did you drink last night?” She dunks the cloth back into the pail, splashing cold water on him. 

He flinches at the sensation of cool droplets branding his feverish skin. “G-gin,” he mumbles. “Just a shot, nothing more.”

“And what was in this gin? Anything new, anything you found up island?”

“No, no, just normal things.”

“Hmmm.” She throws her cloth into the pail and sits back on her heels, assessing him. “Well I don’t know what to tell you, but you’re going to need to drink some potent sweet clover and fennel tea real soon, or else you’ll be in trouble.”

“W-what?”

“Sweet clover and fennel?” Rolling her eyes, she lets out a huff of breath. “You kids and your suppressants. You’ve forgotten the old ways of doing things. Sweet clover and fennel, brewed strong, drink it with nothing else for 24 hours, and it should push back that heat of yours.”

Ben freezes. “Heat? No, it can’t be, I–”

He hasn’t had a heat since he was a teenager, back when he first presented. It was  _ humiliating _ , being locked in his room as his hormones and emotions swirled around him in a soup of bare, potent need, while his mother and uncle paced furiously outside his door. Once it was over, a thin packet of pills was shoved under his door with the strict instruction to take four a day, and thus began his daily routine that kept the cramps, hot flashes, and feverish  _ want _ at bay for the past fifteen years. The fact that such a high dosage turned him into a pent up, emotionally constipated rage monster was an unfortunate, thought not unacceptable, side effect. 

“No,” he insists as his belly twists. “No, I need to go home, I need my emergency pills, I didn’t–”

“Don’t you live in Victoria?” She lets a slow hiss of air out from between her teeth. “Going on the ferry in your condition is not advisable.”

Not advisable is an understatement; going onto public transportation while in heat is violation of at least 10 bylaws and would definitely land him in the RCMP’s heatbox. He’s seen how they take people into custody, how a few of them restrain and cover the unfortunate Omega while one sets off emergency blockers in the air like smoke bombs as Alpha bystanders howl in protest. 

“Sweet clover and f-fennel?” he stutters. “I think Luke has some over–”

He points his chin in the direction of the botanical collection. Grumbling to herself, Ahsoka heads over to the shelves and runs her fingers along the identical mason jars until she identifies the two herbs in question. 

“One teaspoon of each per cup of boiling water,” she instructs, thrusting the jars in his hands. “Don’t strain it. Drink a mug an hour. No water, no food, nothing else until 7 AM tomorrow. Do you understand?”

He nods. With shaking legs, he manages to right himself and pull his pants back up. He squints against the early morning sun. “You’re here to pick up the orders, right?”

“Correct.” She looks satisfied with his ability to right himself, so she turns around to assess the sealed and addressed boxes on the counter. “They all done?”

“Y-yeah, I got them done last night.”

“You sure?” Pointedly, she stares at the last cardboard box, which is conspicuously unsealed. “Because I don’t think Canada Post is going to accept it like that.”

Rey’s box. That is, the box of orders for Rey’s bar. “I, uh, right,” he mumbles. “I just need to–”

He grabs a thick black Sharpie and scrawls a short note on a scrap of paper which he deposits in the box. Next, he turns to the gin.  _ The _ gin, Rey’s gin, the one that’s given him the weirdest, most potent hangover of his life. There’s a strong temptation to squirrel it away under his bed to savour on his loneliest nights, but he  _ can’t _ . It wouldn’t be right, and it wouldn’t  _ do _ anything.

“This one too,” he says with finality, and slides Rey’s gin into the last slot of the box.

“Was that what you were drinking last night?” Ahsoka asks with a raised eyebrow. “And you’re going to send it to somebody?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“But will  _ they _ be fine?” She flashes a suspicious stare at the box. “I won’t be an accomplice to you poisoning someone, or sending them into some sort of fit.”

“She’ll be fine,” he insists, sealing up the box with packing tape. “I...I don’t think it’ll have the same effect on other people.”

“Ah.”

His stomach chooses this moment to clench, like he’s just been punched in the gut. Doubling over, he clutches the edge of the counter for dear life and moans like he’s been shot. He feels  _ disgusting _ ; his hands are clammy, his brain is fried, and his testicles are like two sore, aching stones against his inner thighs. It reminds him of every single time he’s been kicked in the balls, except with less anger and more flushed sweating.

“Why?” he groans. “Why does it feel like this?”

Ahsoka gives him a pitying smile. “It doesn’t always. Not when you’re with the right person. Now rest up, drink some tea, get some sleep, and let it pass. And maybe one day..” Her voice trails off, and her eyes go soft and slightly misty. “I miss it, to be honest. I know it doesn’t seem worth it now, but trust me it is.”

She leaves him with a pat on the shoulder, hefting the boxes over to her decrepit Ford Ranger like they weight nothing at all.

*

It takes him less than a day to succumb to his regrets.

Less than half a day actually, spent drinking mug after mug of herb tea and peeing every fifteen minutes. Ahsoka’s concoction is  _ nasty _ , but it seems to be doing the job. After his second mug, his head starts clearing and, despite the tea’s unfortunate taste and texture, his entire digestive system as well as his testicles no longer feel like they’re on the verge of throwing up. 

Finally, once he’s lucid enough to actually process the last 24 hours, he burrows himself into the guest bedroom above the shop and broods on his own stupidity. Distilling a gin that smells exactly like someone else is the very definition of ‘just because something  _ can _ be done, doesn’t mean it  _ should _ be done’.” Best case scenario is that she enjoys it, mixes it into some cocktails, and continues to order product from Skywalker Estates. Worst case scenario...well, where does he start?

Most likely, she’ll think he’s a creep. Not that she’ll actually  _ know _ it was him, but just the idea of her thinking ill of him makes his heart feel like it’s made of wet dog food. After all, what kind of weirdo distills the exact scent of someone they’ve never met, with whom they have no actual relationship? The kind of weirdo that gets too attached too easily, and whose gestures of admiration hit  _ too _ hard and  _ too  _ fast.

Or maybe she’ll assume he’s a stalker and go to the police. It’s not unheard of, for an Omega to ‘imprint’ on an unsuspecting Alpha, or vice versa, and immediately lose all sense of boundaries. It’s the stuff of tabloids, of sordid tales where an Omega sends progressively dirtier pairs of panties to an unsuspecting Alpha’s house or, conversely, an Alpha makes a habit of stealing an unsuspecting Omega’s dirty panties for themself. It’s smutty garbage, and it’s  _ not _ Ben’s intent at all. He’s not a stalker, he’s just intense, or at least that’s how his mother used to put it. 

All of this crashes back into his brain when, just a few weeks later, Rey waltzes into Luke’s shop unannounced, without a whiff of warning. At first he thinks he’s hallucinating, until the reality of her scent hits him like a semi in the face and he almost faints behind the counter. Panicking, he grabs the morning paper from off of the counter and unfolds it in front of his face, as if the grey newsprint would provide any protection from the potent hormonal cocktail she’s just unleashed in the tiny space. 

And  _ oh _ , is it ever a cocktail. It’s her still, citrus and spice and fresh, transcendent juniper, but now she’s bathed in the scents of every single goddamned person who decided to parade their unwashed, unsuppressed self down to the pier this morning. The effect is like an orgy in his nostrils and Rey is the dominant, her scent caressing each and every other odour into submission. 

She’s talking, something about wanting to speak to Luke, but all he can think is  _ Alpha, Alpha, please notice me, let me please you Alpha _ . He barely scrapes by conversationally, all while hiding his flushed face behind his newspaper, praying she won’t be able to make out the cherry red blush on the tips of his ears. Her voice is angelic, starting sweet and soft but also rich and commanding, like an Alpha’s voice  _ should _ be. She’s  _ everything _ an Alpha should be, and she’s  _ right here _ and he’s  _ making her mad _ .

_ Please your Alpha _ , his brain screams, but he can’t, not when just a little bit of latitude will send him tumbling head over heels for her, this woman he’s barely met whom he pines for with every fibre of his being. He needs this control, needs to wall himself off with a newsprint mask, for now at least, until he can’t get a handle on the animal hindbrain that currently wants to steer him straight into a brick wall.

But then she commands him. 

And,  _ oh _ , what a sweet agony it is. 

Betas and Alphas assume that commands are like hypnosis, or like drugs. Commanded Omegas simply comply without question because their inferior biology can’t resist, which is why the very act of commanding is strictly illegal. For Ben, at least, it’s something completely different. He  _ could _ resist, if he really wanted to. 

In his experience, a command feels more like an itch, specifically the itchiest itch one could possibly imagine. Think mosquito bite on dehydrated, eczema encrusted skin, with a sprinkling of hives to top it off. It doesn’t  _ need _ to be scratched, per say, but scratching it releases the most intense wave of pleasure and relief. Subsequently, with every itch that’s scratched the pleasure increases, leading to an endless cycle of command and obey, command and obey, command and obey.

Ben is well versed in this cycle, which is why her command, albeit just a whisper of compulsion, makes him sick to his stomach with anticipation.  _ But she’s  _ your _ Alpha,  _ his brain pleads.  _ This is different. She will never hurt you like he hurt you. _

So he complies, and pleasure like he’s never felt before floods his entire body. Every cell of his being is tensed, unwilling to give away how absolutely  _ divine _ it feels to make her happy, how it licks up his spine and teases his lips and grips his cock in ways he’s only imagined before. He swallows his whimper in an awkwardly timed cough and manages to hold himself together long enough for her to reach the doorway, but when her hand touches the knob his brain short circuits and he blurts out, “Did you like it?”

God, her eyes are pure starlight. “S-sorry?”

He drops his mask to the counter and faces her with adoration painted on his features. “Did you like it? The mystery gin?”

_ Please. _

“Like it? It was...familiar.”

Familiar. Does she mean plain? Derivative? She’s probably tasted thousands of gins before, so his creation must have seemed pedestrian to her sophisticated palate. He clams up, ashamed, then regains control of himself long enough to say enough meaningless words to fill the space between them until she exits the shop in a huff, but not without leaving a hot, pungent stripe of her scent against the doorframe. 

It’s torture to wait for her to leave. It’s torture to  _ see _ her leave too, but at this point all 100 billion neurons of his brain are firing off in opposite directions so he can only focus on a singular task, which is to  _ inhale _ that fresh Alpha musk as soon as he possibly can. Once she’s past the window, he dives over the counter and presses his nose against the wooden doorframe, taking in deep gulps of air so her scent can fill his mouth and travel down his throat. He wants to drown in it, wants to suffocate himself until all he can sense is  _ her _ wrapped around him like a straightjacket, squeezing every drop of him out so he can be filled with her essence. 

Then he feels it again, through the murky haze of  _ her _ on his tongue. Hot, heavy fever, confusion, thirst, an itchy, sick feeling between his legs; he’s about to collapse under the weight of his heat  _ again, _ and only she can help him. Only  _his_ Alpha.

Or so he thinks, until he remembers the two mason jars on his bedside table.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The distilleries mentioned in this fic are all real, aside from Skywalker Estates of course! For those interested in drinking along, I've based the Skywalker Estates Classic on [Stump Coastal Forest Gin](https://fermentorium.ca/), which is my husband's favourite.


	3. Cardamom and Clove

He’s almost made it to the ferry terminal when Ahsoka spots him.

“Hey! Boy! Where the _fuck_ do you think you’re going?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Ben grumbles. He hoists his hockey bag higher on his shoulders and tries to weave a bit faster through the market crowd, but everyone here is too hot, too pungent, and he feels like he’s swimming through an ocean of molasses. Luckily the terminal is in sight, all he has to do is outrun a seventy five year old woman with a slight limp and blazing temper. He can do it.

 _Or not_. A surprisingly strong yet bony finger burrows into his back, and he freezes. “I’m just going home,” he says, voice quavering.  

Slowly, he turns to face her, fingers extended in surrender. Ahsoka is _livid_ , tension rolling off of her in thick waves. “You’re going _where_?”

“I’m going home, Ahsoka,” he repeats vehemently. Instead it comes out like a whine. “Don’t worry, I have the tea in my bag, I’ll get some hot water once I board the ferry.”

“Board the ferry? Like _hell_ you are. Are you trying to get arrested?”

“It’s fine!” he yelps. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He waves his arms around his massive, sweating body. ”See, I’m out in public now, and it’s fine!”

“ _This_ is not indicative of what normally happens when a pre-heating Omega goes out in public, Benjamin! People here haven’t worn blockers since the sixties.” It’s her turn to gesture a withered hand at his body, specifically at the inflamed scent gland peeking out of the neck of his t-shirt. “There’s so much hormone soup going on that they can barely notice your... _situation._ But mark my words, the moment you step on that ferry full of tourists, you’re going to scandalize every man, woman, and child who just wanted to spend a pleasant day on Saltspring gawking at the hippies.”

He wants to fight, growl at her and make her scurry back to her herbal remedies stand, but instead all he can do is groan as his hockey bag starts digging into the sensitive flesh of his shoulders. “But I have to go,” he breathes. “Because _she’s_ here _,_ and I can’t go back to her like this. I-I’m not ready.”

“You’re not ready,” Ahsoka parrots back, then huffs. “Fine then, you can ride it out at my place.”

Ben shakes his head, convinced he misheard. “W-what?”

“You heard me Benny. My truck’s over there, just throw your stuff in the back and get in. I’ll tell Rex to man the booth until I get you settled.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I–”

She’s already hobbling over to her stand, crowing to an ancient looking bald man who’s hunched next to a display of beeswax salves. She gestures her thumb in Ben’s direction and he ducks, even though it’s immediately apparent she’s talking about him due to the fact that he’s at least four inches taller than everyone around him. Chastened, he drags his bag over to her ‘82 Ford Ranger, glaringly conspicuous with its sloppy coat of orange crush coloured house paint, and hefts the huge duffel into the bed of the truck. He manages to squeeze himself into the cab, ducking slightly so his head doesn’t brush the roof, and attempts to wait patiently as Ahsoka finishes talking to her friend.

God, he _stinks._ The sickly bleach of his blockers is being steadily overpowered by his own oversweet, piney, chai tea smell that reminds him all too much of teenage masturbation marathons accompanied by crushing loneliness and ennui. It’s stifling, especially in this tiny, sun-warmed truck, and makes him feel like he’s marinating in his own juices.

Mercifully, Ahsoka shows up after a couple minutes and hauls herself up into the driver’s seat. She takes a sniff, then tilts her head to the side and rolls down her window.

“Sorry,” Ben blurts out.

“No need to apologize for Mother Nature. Unless you’re apologizing for acting like a buffoon earlier. If so, I accept it.”

The truck has a long, ancient gear shift that’s almost half the size of her body. WIth a grunt, she throws it into reverse and backs out of the parking lot, the engine vibrations sending her dashboard hula girl into what appears to be a frenzied seizure. It’s not a long drive, but it’s enough that he’s clammy with sweat by the time they reach Ahsoka’s place. It’s a small, two storey house, clad in cedar shingles stained red and weathered with age, with worn white shutters trimming it’s windows. The inside is paneled with oiled cedar that fills the space with a musty richness while stained glass skylights fill the living room with a rainbow of glistening colours.

Ahsoka gestures to a squashy orange and brown couch located under the front picture window. “Take a seat here while I get everything settled. There’s a spare room down the hall.”

“Thanks.” Ben kicks his shoes off by the door and slouches down into the couch, which smells of peat and mothballs. “Nice place.”

“It’s small, but it’s home.” She bustles past him, sliding on a pair of house slippers, and heads towards the kitchen. “So, what do you need?” she calls over her shoulder as she fills a small basin with water. “Lotion, tissues? I know Gareth down the way will sometimes drill a hole in a watermelon, and that seems to work well for him.”

His back straightens against the saggy springs of the couch. “What? No! I just...more of that tea please, if you have it.”

“Tea? You mean you’re not going to–” Realization dawns on her face. With a sigh, she shuts off the tap and walks into the living room, basin and wet washcloth in hand. “Again, Ben? I’m sorry, I know it’s not any of my business, but skipping it again...that’s not healthy.”

His face flames. “You’re right, it _isn’t_ any of your business. I really don’t want to have a– have _that_ right now.”

“Have that? You mean go into heat?”

He scrubs at his face. “Geez, this could not be more mortifying.”

“Wrong.” She wrings her washcloth out then squats next to him and starts dabbing it against his fevered forehead. “I first presented in the middle of my tae kwon do class, taught by _your_ grandfather and it was _your_ grandmother Padme who found me in the girl’s change room, burning up with my hand down my pants.”

“Oh god.” Ben tries to burrow his head into her embroidered throw pillows. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because everyone has these stories. Heats and ruts aren’t actually like they are in porn or romance novels; they’re messy and gross and embarrassing, but that’s no reason to get rid of them entirely. Let me put it this way: if you were an Alpha, would you suppress yourself until you had no ruts?”

She stares at him pointedly.

“Maybe,” he says. “Well, no, of course I would! I mean–” Frustrated, he lets out a huff of air. “Well, actually, maybe not.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s not the same. Ruts aren’t humiliating. They don’t– don’t cry, and whine, and obsessively clean the house, they just become _more_ in control of things.”

“Ahhh.” She pulls the cloth away from his face and rocks back onto her heels. “So that’s what this is all about. You’re scared to give up control.”

“Of _course_ I am!” he spits, louder than he intended, shrinking back when his voice reverberates off of her cedar paneled walls.

“I see.” Abruptly, she rises, bowing her head. “My apologies for pushing you. Of course it’s your body, your choice. I’ll start the kettle.”

She hums a Leonard Cohen song, _Bird on the Wire_ he thinks, as she fills a shiny copper kettle full of water and sets it to boil on the stove. Ben wriggles himself into a divot on the couch and takes in some deep, calming breaths, willing his cells to stop the clammy flush that’s spreading steadily across his skin.

He’s onto his second mug of tea, the dirt and licorice flavour thick on his tongue, when he’s finally able to clarify his anxiety. “It was my boss. He– he was an Alpha.”

Ahsoka hums from her rocking chair, where she’s knitting a nubby patterned, rainbow dyed shawl. She shakes her head,  pearlescent white needles pausing mid-stitch. “Yes?”

Ben pulls the denim quilt around his shoulders and takes another sip of tea. “Yeah. I-I don’t really want to talk about it, but that’s part of it. Plus coming from a family of Alphas...they didn’t mean to make me feel bad, but they were the ones who got me started on such a high dosage of suppressants, I guess because they figured I would be better off.”

“Ah.” She resumes her knitting. “That’s one of the difficulties with living in a dichotomous culture. It’s hard to empathize with those on the other side of the divide.”

“But how was it for you?” he wonders. “If you’re comfortable sharing, that is.”

Her face softens. “I’m not going to lie to you– it was hard sometimes. Often, actually; back then it wasn’t common for a female to stay single, much less an Omega female who looks like me. At the start, your grandfather and grandmother were a godsend... legally, I wasn’t allowed to work until I was well into my twenties, but they made sure I was fed, clothed, and the like.”

“Until Grandma died.”

“That’s right. Seeing your Grandfather deteriorate as quickly as he did–” She pauses, sighing. “ – it made me realize that there’s a suffering to being an Alpha too. Failure it-it affects them differently. And losing a loved one as well...it was like he had lost his will to live.”

Ben takes another sip of his tea and lets it slosh around in his mouth as he muses. “My mother used to say that an Alpha without a pack is a terrible thing.”

“That’s very true. I know you asked about me, but honestly my early life was so tied up with Anakin that it’s hard for me to recall that time separate from him. He was my Alpha, but not in the way we normally think of it, and losing him...it made me reevaluate a lot of things in my life.”

She gently sets her knitting on the ground and stands, walking over to a wall of photos directly outside of the kitchen. She pauses at the first one and runs her fingers against the thin oak frame surrounding the image. “I learned to accept myself. One by one, I examined my components, then bundled them all up into myself. I am an Omega. There’s no shame in that, and it’s not something worth punishing myself for.”

“Do you think I’m punishing myself?”

Her head whips back to look at him, sending her colourful twists flying around her face. “I don’t know what to make of you, Ben Solo, and I’m fairly certain you don’t know either. You said you’ve had some bad experiences with an Alpha some time ago and that you don’t feel secure enough to actually go into heat, yet the last time I saw you, you were sauced out of your gourd on some Alpha pheromone voodoo juice you cooked up in Luke’s still. You need to make up your damn mind.”

“It’s-it’s complicated.” He takes in a scalding gulp of tea to give himself a few seconds to formulate his thoughts. “I-I don’t know her–”

“Oh, it’s a _her_?” Ahsoka’s eyes sparkle.

He frowns. “Well yeah, I’m not–”

“Hey, we don’t judge here!”

“I’m not saying you do, it’s just–” He groans. “That’s kind of part of it. You know, there’s so few female Alphas out there that I’d sort of given up on finding someone. I’m not attracted to men, and the few female Betas I’ve been with have been...well, I’m sure they tried.”

She winces. “Are you scared that this is your once in a lifetime chance?”

Ben bristles at the word ‘scared’. He’s not scared, he’s merely...hesitant to move forward. He’s always been a bit much for most people, and he’s sure a young, successful, female Alpha like Rey must have her pick of potential partners. “I can be...a lot,” he finishes lamely. “And I’m sure she won’t want me as I am. My boss he-he got a lot out of holding me down, as a lot of Alphas do and, while part of me craved that feeling, now that I’m out I want someone who wants...me. Not just the fact that I’m an Omega.”

“Hmmm.” Ahsoka leans up against the wall. “That’s the struggle for us, isn’t it? Staying true to ourselves and making sure our Alphas are worthy of us.”

“No, she is!” he insists. “She’s worthy of anything, it’s me that’s–”

“Ben, do you hear yourself? You say she’s worthy of anything, yet you’re scared to commit because you’re sure no one will treat you well. Here’s your problem.” Determined, she stomps back over to her rocking chair and sits down with purpose. “You need to learn to love yourself.”

“Love myself? I–” He snorts. “I like myself.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is that what I said? Like yourself?”

“No you said…” His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips as he stalls. “ _Love_. But what does that mean exactly?”

“It means trusting and believing that there is someone out there who wants to be with you for you. Do you honestly feel like you’re so revolting that no one will ever want to be with you?”

He cringes. “No, it’s not that. I’ve had people show interest in me, but never as an-an Omega.”

“Right.” She wrinkles her nose and waves a hand in his direction. “Hence the nasty blockers to cover up your perfectly fine natural scent.”

“The blockers are more for me, but still. People think I’m courteous!”

“– Because they think you’re an Alpha. Why aren’t you _honest_ with who you are, Ben? You can’t expect people to accept you if you’re not honest with them.”

“Why do you care?” he spits, petulant.

“Maybe because I’m sick and tired of hauling your ass off of the ferry so you don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Of maybe I understand what it feels like to struggle against your designation, to try and squeeze yourself into a box that can’t contain you. So here’s a thought: fuck all of it. Fuck the blockers, fuck hiding, _fuck_ ripping yourself into little pieces so no one gets a chance to know you. Just be Ben.”

“Right, because that sounds SO appealing. ‘Hi, I’m Ben. I’m a six foot three Omega who weighs 240 pounds, can’t cook worth shit, has anger issues, and barely remembers to shower.’” He lets out a laugh that tapers off into a sad sigh. “I’m no one’s idea of a catch.”

“You don’t know that. I’m not saying you have to cast everything off overnight. Only...consider it.” She gives him a small smile then resumes her knitting, her needles moving so quickly that they weave through the yarn like twin flashes of white light.

*

He spends the night and most of the next day sweating out his hormones on Ahsoka’s couch, sipping endless mugs of sludgy, herby tea and pouting. Thankfully, he has the place to himself for the most part, aside from a crusty old cat loitering outside the front door, and Ahsoka herself once she returns from manning her market stall. Every hour like clockwork, he trudges down the hall to her bathroom to relieve himself, pointedly avoiding the gaze of the crocheted dress wearing Barbie doll that houses her spare roll of toilet paper, who also has the power to divest him of any urge to masturbate whatsoever.

Exactly 24 hours later, Ahsoka walks over to him and gives the air a conspicuous sniff. “Seems like you’re in the clear,” she announces.

“Thanks doc,” he drones sarcastically, eyes glued to his phone where he’s currently trying to beat level 47 of Insane Cupcake Party.

She rolls her eyes. “Did you think about what we talked about?”

He groans. “Yes. I’ll...consider it.”

“Excellent.” She leans over and pats him on the knee. “And are you going to call up that nice Alpha from before?”

Snorting to himself, he turns off his phone and pockets it. “I can’t. Don’t know her, don’t have her number.”

It’s a blatant lie, considering he visits her bar’s website at least five times a day to read her bio. Hell, he’s fairly certain he could recite it all by heart at this point.

Ahsoka’s face falls. “Well, promise me you’ll put yourself out there. Go out sometime, meet some new people. I’m sure you’ll encounter someone else that’ll spark a connection.”

His belly twists at the mere _suggestion_ that he’ll find another Alpha even _half_ as beautiful, intelligent, and resourceful as Rey. Impossible. She’s the only one for him, he knows that deep in his bones and as sure as he breathes. Even imagining that he might _look_ at someone else sends sparks of panic through his body.

_Your Alpha is so good to you, and you betray her. You don’t deserve her._

Objectively, he knows this is absurd. This relationship, if he could even call it that, is horribly one sided at best. She’s done next to nothing for him, aside from taking time off from her very important job to ride the ferry to the middle of nowhere just to speak with the creator of the gin she was interested in. By herself. On a work day. Just that. Only that.

Ben mushes his face into his hands. “Oh god, I’m an idiot,” he moans.

“This isn’t news,” Ahsoka crows. “But I’m happy you’ve finally figured it out.”

She sends him off with a greasy paper bag full of ‘brownies’ for Luke. He declines her offer of a ride, preferring to trudge slowly back down the road, salt air blowing in his sweat crisped hair as he tries to untangle his latest offering of word salad back in her living room. So he hates himself--or at least doesn’t _love_ himself, which honestly isn’t news to him. Objectively, there’s isn’t much to love, aside from his physical largeness which most people assume is due to him being an Alpha, which he very definitely is _not._

It’s a mindfuck. He comes to this realization right at the entrance to Skywalker Estates and has to physically pause with his hand on the gate as his brain reels. The attractive parts of him; his height, musculature, dark hair, big hands, domineering, explosive temper, low voice, rugged ‘masculinity’, they all point to him being an Alpha. Hell, even _he_ would think he was an Alpha, if he didn’t know himself. People are attracted to him because they think he’s an Alpha.

And he’s not.

So he hates himself, because his very being is a lie. He’s an overgrown Alpha exterior with a gooey, melting Omega interior that _no one_ wants, not without the empathy, softness, and gentle beauty to match it. Frustrated, he flings the gate open and stalks onto the property, holding the bag of brownies out to Luke with a wordless grunt.

Luke sets his rake to the side and wipes his hands on his well worn Roots letterman jacket. “Someone’s in a good mood, I see.”

“Just take the damn brownies.”

“Alright, no need to get testy.” He grabs the bag, opens it, and takes a huge sniff. When his face emerges, he’s wearing the stupidest dopey grin that makes Ben want to grab the bag back and smack him in the face with it.

“Is that the good shit?” he deadpans. 

Luke rolls his eyes and sighs. “It’s pretty damn good. You’re free to try some, if you want.”

“Ugh, no.” The idea of sitting out on the lawn sharing a pot brownie with his uncle makes him want to drag himself back to the pier and throw himself into the ocean head first.

“It would do you some good,” Luke maintains. “You’re wound up so tight. Such a Skywalker.”

 _Such a Skywalker_ . His dad used to say that, whenever Ben would get angry or frustrated as a child. He’s roll his eyes and say, in that deep drone of his, _“He gets his theatrics from your side of the family, Leia. Such a Skywalker.”_ Pejorative insinuations notwithstanding, Leia often agreed, her brow furrowing with frustration whenever Ben said or did anything that reminded her of her alcoholic father.

Now, as an adult, this has apparently manifested into a serious case of self-loathing. Ben crosses his arms in front of his chest and grimaces. “Why are we like this, exactly?”

Sighing, Luke slumps down on the ground, squashing the tall grass around him. “I don’t know, Ben,” he admits. “Honestly, Leia and I hoped that you...that you would be different, not being an Alpha. That you wouldn’t have to deal with all of this–” He clasps his hands to his chest. “The extra-ness.”

Throwing his discomfort to the wind, Ben sits down next to him, narrowly avoiding landing butt first on the bag of brownies. “If anything, I think it made it worse,” he admits.

“That’s very self aware of you, Ben.” Luke smiles at him and gently jabs his elbow into his nephew’s ribs. “Admitting your faults instead of trying to hide behind your anger.”

“Well, it’s true. And I don’t know if it’s worth much to say this now, but you guys really fucked me up when I was younger, with how you dealt with all of–” He gestures to his large body and taps his neck to indicate his mating gland, “– _this_ . You made me feel like a freak, like some sort of hormonal time bomb that would go off any second if I wasn’t stuffed full of suppressants. I didn’t...I didn’t get to understand what it means to be an Omega, and I _still_ don’t understand it. I don’t feel like an Omega, but I don’t feel like an Alpha either. And definitely not a Beta,” he adds as an afterthought.

Luke’s face falls, making him look all of his sixty plus years and then some. “I’m sorry Ben,” he says, voice rough. “We thought we were doing the right thing, _I_ thought I was doing the right thing, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. What I can do is encourage you to embrace who you are.”

“I don’t _know_ who I am,” Ben responds through gritted teeth. “That’s the fucking point. I didn’t get to learn any of the shit I was supposed to.”

“But who said you needed to learn anything?”

“Uh, everyone? Look at me; I’m the worst fucking Omega in the history of the goddamned planet. I can’t even talk to a girl without having a fucking meltdown, and I look like something that was scraped off of the bottom of the pier.”

Luke shakes his head and digs into the paper bag to retrieve one of Ahsoka’s bite sized brownies, which he pops into his mouth. “Shut up,” he drawls, chewing slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with how you look. That’s the issue these days. We let these designations define us instead of defining them _for_ us. So you’re an Omega who’s a bit socially awkward and doesn’t like manicures...who the hell cares? Who wrote the book on Omegas anyways?”

“I–” Ben’s shoulders slump. He feels like he’s been running a marathon over the past few days, and the finish line isn’t even in sight. “I’m just so tired, Uncle Luke.”

“Then go have a nap.”

“That’s not what I–”

“Go have a nap,” Luke insists. “Like you said, you look like shit. A nap will help, trust me.”

Snorting, Ben hefts himself to his feet and stalks over to the shop. He kicks off his shoes at the door and lumbers through the store area before he reaches the winding staircase that leads to the apartment upstairs. He hears Luke fiddling with the door behind him, yelling something about cleaning up his room, but at this point Ben’s resigned to the fact that his uncle is right; he needs a fucking nap on something better than a six foot long couch from the seventies.

His feet squeak on the ancient hardwood. He’s annoyed but then he smells... _something_. Something in his room, something that smells like–

 _No._ He’s hallucinating. He has to be, except when he throws open the guest room door a gust of air bursts into the hallway, bringing with it a saturated, heady, mouth watering scent that could only belong to one person.

_Rey._

She’s _everywhere_ . Dripping down the walls, soaked into the bedding; she’s even left tiny footprints of scent skittered across the carpet. Ben groans, clutching the doorframe for support as Luke drags himself up the stairs. 

“Like I was trying to say,” he pants. “Rey stayed here last night, in your room.”

“She s-slept–” Ben tries to swallow the enormous lump in his throat and, after a few tries, eventually succeeds. “She slept _in my bed_?”

“Well, technically it’s my guest room, and you weren’t using it.” Luke shrugs. “I was hardly going to tell the poor girl to hoof it down to a hotel for the night, especially after you so rudely– what do the kids call it now? You ghouled her.”

“ _Ghosted,_ ” Ben corrects him through clenched teeth. “And I didn’t ghost her, that’s not what– oh god.”

He’s abruptly lightheaded as a fresh wave of scent blows across his face. It’s her, fresh and piney and _perfect_ , but there’s also a waft of _him_ as well, stale and musky from the sheets. “You didn’t even wash them before?” he says to Luke, his voice barely a whine.

The other man shrugs again. “She said she didn’t mind.”

“She didn’t mind.” So she slept _all night_ in sheets that smelled _like him_ . Ben’s brain doesn’t know how to process that information; he’s got half a mind to bury himself in the bedding and never escape, while his other half is pleading for him to throw himself out the window. Did she like it? Simply the fact that she didn’t request clean sheets seems to indicate that she liked his scent...but that means nothing if she doesn’t actually like _him._

“I–”

He turns to Luke, but only catches his retreating back.

“I’ll be out in the barn if you need me,” he calls back to Ben. “Please try not to have a heart attack. Laundry soap is in the cupboard next to the washer.”

“Laundry soap?” Ben turns back to the room, frowning. Why would he–?

 _Oh_ . Luke assumes he wants to change his sheets. A thick wave of revulsion oozes into Ben’s gut. Immediately, he’s very _very_ aware that he definitely does not want to change his sheets, thank you very much. As a matter of fact, the very thought of laundering them makes him feel like peeling off his own skin and jumping into a bathtub full of lemon juice. Even though Luke’s thinly veiled prompt makes him feel disgusting for coveting dirty linens, he can’t bring himself to switch them.

The light tinkle of the storefront bell signals that Luke has left the building. Instantly, Ben launches himself into his room, closes the door behind him, and buries himself face first into his bed. It’s– _so much more_ than anything he’s experienced before, more than his first sniff, more than her barging into the shop, more than the shot of her scent sliding down his throat. Here she _envelops_ him, _they_ envelop him; his and her scent melding together in a perfect harmony that’s poetry to his senses.

He doesn’t even know when his pants come off or when his shirt gets tossed to the side. All he knows is the time-softened rub of linen sheets against his bare skin, the scent of his Alpha clinging to every nook and cranny of his body. He rubs his face into the pillow, scenting the rich sweetness of her hair and the echoes of her breath in the soft down. _She_ slept here, without him, and it’s enough to make him _ache_ for her to come back, to be _with_ him. Maybe if he just–

 _No._ Finally, his brain is happy enough to let him languish in her, if only for the moment. The mixture of them together just _does_ something to him. It’s like a sedative filled with promises of what’s to come, enhanced by the lived in musk of him in the sheets, like they’ve been laid in, slept in, _fucked_ in over the past week.

“ _Rey_ ,” he murmurs into fabric. “ _Yes, Rey, please_ .” Ever so slowly, his right hand travels down his torso, ghosting over the dark hair between his legs before firmly gripping his aching cock. His free hand fists the sheets around his waist and brings them to his nose. He inhales and– _oh_.

It’s her, but it’s _different._ The same juniper, bergamot, cassia, black pepper, but underlaid with so much more. Musk, of course, saturated and heady, but with a oceany tang that could only be, be–

_Oh._

He’s dying. That’s the only explanation for how he feels right now, how is brain is trying to emerge out of his skull. The hand on his dick is an afterthought as he throws caution to the wind and stuffs the sheet into his mouth. Her scent, her _taste_ explodes on his tongue in an eruption of perfectyesmineplease _Alpha_ as his tongue rasps against the linen, scraping every molecule of _her_ from the fibres. His scent _pleased_ her, he can tell by how the fabric is saturated with her essence, now damp and slick from his mouth, staining his palate and swallowing his groans.

From now on, it’s only her. Her scent it the only scent he seeks, the only one that will make him feel even close to this way. If he had the fortitude, he’d flush his stifling blockers down the toilet right this minute because he’s sure, now that he’s tasted her, that no other scent will bother him. This is his new normal, his new home, his new _everything._

He’s already so close.  Juniper and bergamot, musk, and oceanside, fresh air and rich, cracked clove buds crowd his senses until all he can feel is _us, yes, together, Alpha._ Pleasure begins to bubble from the base of his spine, scalding his thrusting hips and tingling in his balls until he squeezes _just so_ and _yes–_

Teeth clenching the sheet, he comes hard against his abdomen, scenting the room with a rush of crushed green cardamom. He squeezes his fist again, imagining her bearing down on him as she peaks, and his cock twitches, letting out another spurt of cum as he shivers with aftershocks. In a burst of lust, he tugs the sheet from his mouth and uses it to catch the final smear of his spend, then he presses it to his nose and inhales, opening his mouth to capture drips of it on his tongue. It’s heaven, pure and simple, wet and heady and perfect and _them_.

*

He’s only asleep for an hour or less but, upon waking, everything has changed.

There’s a thrumming mania writhing underneath his skin, beckoning him to empty his room and redecorate, to shave and shower and trim his hair, to dress in a nice shirt and pants, to be _naked_ , to make sure he has no back pimples, to brush his teeth then floss then brush again, to sweep and dust his room, to sweep and dust the _entire house_ , to wax his armpits just in case he stinks, to—

He takes in a deep gulping breath and jumps in the shower, as it seems to be the most reasonable of his anxieties. Methodically, he scrubs at his skin with detached efficiency, careful to keep his hands from lingering too long at his throbbing, sensitive glands. Once he’s done, he towels off his body, runs a comb through his hair, and pauses. His blocking deodorant is next in his regular hygiene routine, but it feels _wrong_ , especially now. He can’t cover himself up, not now that he’s fresh and clean for his Alpha.

So, for the first time in fifteen years, he walks out of the bathroom completely unblocked, wearing only his natural musk that’s quickly evolving into the hormonal equivalent of a flare gun. He smells it too; sweet and spicy and piney, with a musky edge that screams _I’m ready_ ,

It’s boiling, deep in his gut, the visceral sensation that his body is made of dynamite and about ready to explode. Despite his potency, his scent isn’t enough; Rey lives too far to scent him, and he’s too far gone to travel to her. He’s not sure how any of this works, to be honest. Does he send her a quick text? Email her? Call her bar and hope that she’s working? His utter incompetence is frustrating, especially since it’s born out of complete ignorance of the entire heat process. How can he be good enough for his Alpha if he has no idea what the hell he’s doing?

But then he realises...there’s one thing he knows how to do. Determined, he jogs down the stairs and stalks out of the shop towards the barn like a hunter tracking his prey. He throws open the creaky wooden door and growls, “Get out.”

Luke looks up from his mortar and pestle, eyes narrowed with confusion. “W-what?”

“You heard me.” Ben takes a firm step forward, and his uncle’s expression changes. Shifts, right when the full cocktail of Ben’s scent hits him.

“Oh. _Oh_.” To his credit, if Luke is repulsed he doesn’t show it. Cautiously, he steps back from the counter. “You’re...needing the still, I assume?”

“Yes.” Ben can feel the fever mounting, creeping up the back of his neck and making his scalp sweat. He doesn’t have much time, a day, maybe two, before he’s deep in the throes of his heat, aching and moaning and barely lucid. He needs to finish this, this _one task_ , before he can succumb. “I need... _me,_ to send to her. I-I need to mix it and start the-the condenser and I–”

“You need to rest,” Luke insists, while giving Ben a wide berth. “Do your mixing, but then you need to get some sleep and drink some water.”

“But I need to bottle it and send it, and–”

“I’ll make sure it gets to her. You take care of yourself.” He tinges his words with a hint of Alpha insistence, but thankfully not enough that it starts to get weird.

Ben closes his eyes, nods, and tries to clear his head. “Y-you promise?” he confirms.

“I promise.” Luke throws his hands in the air. “Who am I to get in the way of true love?”

Once Luke’s gone, Ben yanks off his shirt and rubs at his throbbing neck glands. He groans, panting in the cool air of the barn as a wave of relief courses through his veins and trickles down his spine. With a firm hand, he rubs at the inflamed skin for a few seconds until he’s sure his scent is saturated on his palm and fingers, then he brings his hands together, cups them over his nose and mouth, and takes a deep inhale.

_Green Cardamom. Clove. Wet pine needles, freshly ground ink stick, a sweet olive-y tinge of ash smoke. Juniper, yes, so much juniper, just like Alpha. He was made for his Alpha._

He moves to the shelves of herbs and starts grabbing jars, twisting off lids and sticking them to his nose until he finds the perfect scents. Carefully, he cracks open the fresh cardamom pods and discards the papery husks, then rubs them between his fingertips to awaken their oils. He does the same with the juniper, warming it in the palm of his hand as if he’s coaxing life back into the deep purple, slightly wrinkled berries. He takes equal pinches of pine needle and labradour tea, exhaling onto them with his hot breath until they are barely moistened, then adds them to the rough stone bowl of the mortar, along with four clove buds and barely a centimetre of sweet Ceylon cinnamon.

The rhythm of swirling the pestle as he compounds the botanicals lulls him into a temporary calm. This is fine, everything will be fine, his Alpha will smell and taste the gin he distills for her and she’ll love it, she’ll love _him_ , and she’ll want to be with him. _Forever._

But then he smells his mixture and no, _no_ it’s all _wrong,_ it smells absolutely _nothing_ like him. He sees red, and suddenly the botanicals are flying in the air and the mortar falls to his feet with a sick _crack_ on the stone floor because he _can’t_ do it, there’s not enough time, and he’ll end up alone.

_Forever._

“Hey.”

Ben whirls around to find Luke at the door of the barn, a mason jar of orange liquid in his hand. “I brought you some kombucha,” he offers, extending the jar. “You gonna be okay, kid?”

“I– “ Ben voice is stuck in his throat so he just stares, his chest heaving with exertion.

Luke’s eyes trail from his face down to the smashed mortar and powdered herbs dusting the floor. “Ah.”

“I-I can’t do it,” Ben says, trying to pull himself back from the edge of hysteria. “I can’t get it right.”

Luke leaves the kombucha on the counter then walks over to the pile of rubble on the floor. Kneeling down, he wafts the mixture’s scent to his nose. “Hm. How many attempts did you do?”

Ben rubs at his face in an attempt to wipe away the sweat beading on his brow. “One.”

“One?” Luke looks up at him, incredulous. “You didn’t get it right the first time, so you’re going to quit? How many tries did it take for her batch?”

Ben shrugs. “A few,” he grumbles. “But it’s not the same. I shouldn’t need to try so hard when it’s me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I– my scent isn’t as…”

“Complex? Nuanced?” Luke urges. “Because that’s not true at all. An Omega’s scent is usually _far_ more complicated than an Alphas because it has to carry itself and stand out in a crowd, and your scent has a lot going on Ben, but it’s not unpleasant or basic. Not really my thing, of course, but it’s got a lot going for it.”

Ben runs his hand across the shelf of spices in front of him. “I just– I can’t discern all the notes. Normally I can.”

“Then try harder.”

Ben throws him a withering glare, which Luke shrugs off. “Or don’t. Have you considered that some of the notes might not be notes at all? Maybe it’s just _you._ ”

He taps the glass of kombucha with his finger, then pats Ben on the shoulder and sneaks out of the barn before his nephew can bite his head off out of frustration.

Alone again, Ben leans his body against the counter, hyper aware of the sensation of the cool coastal air evaporating on his fevered torso. It doesn’t _make sense_ . All personal scents are made up of notes, like individualized perfumes. Each note _must_ correspond to something. Even an association like ‘home’ or ‘comfort’ or ‘childhood’ always boils down to an identifiable note of something, like cookies or a bedframe made from a specific species of wood.

But his scent–? Reluctantly, he rubs his hands on his aching glands again, this time not limiting himself to just his neck but also stroking his underarms, wrists and, very gingerly, between his legs. This time, sniffing his cupped hands, he allows his mind to wander, trying to capture the _emotions_ evoked by his scent, not just the discernible notes.

  


_He’s at his first calligraphy lesson, watching his instructor scrape the ink stick against the stone dish. With a few drops of water, the dust transforms into a glossy black paste into which the instructor continues to grind the stick, concentrating the pigment until it’s as dark as charcoal. Mother thinks that calligraphy is an appealing skill for an Omega and, even though he’s only fourteen, she insists that he needs to start building his skillset right away.  Ben’s not sure what that means._  


_He’s gasping into his cupped hands, belly still rolling from the intense minute of dry heaving he just had over the toilet. His spicy, piney scent is barely discernible through his blockers, but it’s still there, enough to ground him even as the itching in his brain grows harder to ignore. He doesn’t want to work more unpaid overtime. He doesn’t want to launder Snoke’s dirty money. He doesn’t want to engineer a smear campaign against his own mother, yet here he is doing all three, his soul bared raw without a chance to scab over._  


_He’s nineteen years old, finally, with a Glencairn glass of gin at one hand and a mug of weak coffee at the other. This is all so stupid; he’s been drinking since he was fourteen and hasn’t been IDed since he was sixteen, but Uncle Luke insisted it was important, so here he is, dabbing gin on his hands and huffing it while his nasty old uncle who smells like juniper and weed lectures him on what he’s doing wrong._  
  


_She is everything to him. Dazzling smile, sparkling eyes, a fiery spirit, and a scent to die for. He’s in love, plain and simple. He’s never been in love before, but the moment her rich juniper and bergamot scent hits his nostrils, he feels his heart galvanize  into an instrument that beats only for her._

 

His scent lingers in his nostrils like it never has before. Rich, spicy, pine-crisp….it’s _wonderful,_ especially free from the chemicals that used to twist it into something heavy and artificially Alpha. But, the more he ponders it, he’s sure Luke is right; there’s something undefinable about how he smells, especially how he smells right now. It’s pheromones or something, the sticky musk of heat spreading across his skin, transforming his scent into something exclusively for his Alpha.

Curious, Ben takes a fresh handful of juniper berries and, instead of rubbing them in his hands, he rolls them against his neck gland. Pulling his hand back, he sniffs them and purrs with relief. Of _course_. The solution was so simple, yet so intimately personal that he never even considered it. In order to send her a pure, distilled concentrate of his impending heat, he has to bodily infuse himself into it, scenting every note until it sings of him.

Through the haze of his pre-heat brain, there’s a nagging thought that this technique seems like cheating, and isn’t very food-safe to boot, but it doesn’t stop him from scraping pine needles against his wrists and warming the cardamom pods against his neck. Nervously, he collects all of his scented botanicals in Luke’s old cast iron pan and crushes them roughly with one of the mason jars, very, _very_ aware that his heartbeat keeps rising and his vision keeps going blurry.

The resulting scent is _yes, perfect._ It’s home and it’s _him_ , and all he can imagine is her uncorking the bottle, releasing all of his feelings straight into her body. With jittery fingers, he loosens the ties of a cheesecloth bag and dips his spices into it, then tightens it and wills his clammy body over to the still.

Strong fingers dig into his shoulder, stopping him. “Ben, you need to rest. Let me finish.”

“NO!” Ben snarls. He tries to bat off Luke’s grip, succeeding until another set of hands grab onto him too.

“Ben.” Ahsoka’s concerned face pops into his vision. “You’re progressing fast. You need to get into the bath right away or else you’re going to go into heat before your Alpha can arrive, and we wouldn’t want that, hm?”

“ _Alpha_.” His voice cracks. “I need to– I need to finish this. For her.”

“Let Luke finish, Ben.”

“No!” It comes out as a whimper this time as the weight of his trembling body starts being too much for him to carry. She’s right, he’s progressing so quickly now, his body finally free of the quadruple dose of suppressants he’s pumped into it over the past fifteen years. He can barely stand, much less be conscious and alert enough to distill something that won’t make Rey sick or blind if she tries drinking it.

“F-fine,” he spits out. “But no one...touch...you can’t.” He waves the bag of botanicals in front of him, and Luke nods.

“I won’t touch them, okay?”

He backs away and allows Ben to hobble over to the column, open the little door, and hang the bag so it’s suspended over the copper packing. Once he’s satisfied with the placement, he seals it closed and, without another word, slumps out the door.

Luke and Ahsoka exchange glances.

“I’ll run him a peppermint and eucalyptus bath,” she says. “Let me know once the run is complete, and I’ll send the bottle off to the mainland with Priority shipping.”

Looking around the barn, Luke spots Ben’s untouched glass of kombucha. He grabs it, along with the stool, and drags them in front of the still. “Thanks Ahsoka.” He sighs. “It’s going to be a long night.”

*

It’s been three days, and she’s still catching whiffs of _him._

Rey scrubs under her nails at the handwashing sink, using a little natural bristle brush and a squirt of lemony fresh soap. When she’s done, she lifts her fingertips to her nose and, _yes_ , she can still make out a hint of clove and cardamom, shot through with the ever present slash of juniper. It’s unbelievable.

It’s not like she even spent a significant amount of time with him. Just a few minutes in person, not even touching, only barely breathing the same air. It shouldn’t have been enough for him to scent her this much, especially after several showers.

As for that night...she very pointedly  does _not_ recall that night as anything out of the ordinary and will insist on her deathbed that she had a perfectly nice sleep in Luke’s guest room, and nothing else. Certainly she didn’t spend most of the night with her nose buried in his nephew’s dirty sheets, huffing his spicy sweet scent like she was chasing a high, and she _definitely_ didn’t make herself come all over his bed with three fingers stuffed in her pussy.

Twice.

That probably doesn’t have anything to do with it anyways. The fact that she can still smell _him_ on her skin is just some sort of genetic quirk, like how some people’s pee stinks after they eat asparagus. She must have reacted to his pheromones, the ones in the shop, and they threw off her scent. Or something.

Snap sidles over to the sink as she’s rubbing some lotion onto her hands. “Any fun plans this week?” he wonders, punctuating his question with a grin.

“Nope. You?”

“Oh y’know. The usual. Watching the game with the boys, got a date with Jess on Thursday.”

“Hmm. How’s that going for you?”

His entire face softens. “Oh well, y’know. She’s just amazing. She so smart and accomplished. Got this megawatt smile that lights up the room. Reminds me a bit of you, to be honest.”

Rey snorts. “Oh wow, thanks.”

“No, really!” He chuckles to himself. “I mean, she’s a Beta as well, but she’s kind of got a bit of those Alpha balls, y’know? No offense.”

Rolling her eyes, she chuckles and grabs another squirt of lotion. “It’s fine. I’m used to stuff like that. I personally consider both ‘balls’ and “big dick energy’ to be gender neutral.”

“Cool, cool.” He looks down at the ground, then back up at her, suddenly sheepish. “So, are you seeing anyone these days?”

Rey’s heart leaps in her chest. “W-why do you ask?”

“You just seem a bit lonely lately.” He shrugs. “And you’re an awesome person who deserves to be loved.”

Put that way, it seems so simple. So _Beta_ , to be more accurate. “It’s...complicated,” she manages to say in an attempt to make conversation. “I’ve been with people that I’ve liked a lot, could maybe even see myself falling in love with but they–”

“ –they didn’t smell right,” he completes with the inflection of a Beta who’s heard it described to him many times but still doesn’t quite get it.

Rey winces and wrinkles her nose. “That’s a big part of it, but there’s so much more. They didn’t _feel_ right. It’s like...have you ever seen those really old couples walking around that have obviously been together for like a hundred years?”

“Aw!” He grins. “Yeah, of course.”

“Well, being with the right person...it’s like _that_ level of intimacy, but it’s instantaneous. People tend to focus on the sex part of it, which is a big deal don’t get me wrong, but there’s also an overwhelming emotional bonds that click into place when you’re with the right partner.”

“Huh. And you’ve experienced this before, eh?”

She doesn’t think she could ever describe to him, or ever _should_ describe to him, how masturbating on a stranger’s sweaty bed sheets was the closest emotional connection she’s ever had to someone else. “Well, kind of? I guess?”

“Wow. Well, if they’re still available, you should call them up.” With a casual camaraderie, he pats her on the shoulder and gives her a smile. “Because it sounds fucking amazing.”

As she walks down the hall to her office, she imagines, just for a moment, what it would be like to be in a Beta relationship. She’s...tried dating Betas in the past, and had some fun times, but it was like she had to hide a part of herself from them. Come to think of it, every relationship she’d had, she’s squished away a part of herself to ‘make it work’, whether it’s been her Alpha-ness, straight-ness, or some other crippling anxiety she hasn’t seen fit to bring in to it.

With a sigh, she shuts herself into her office and slumps down into her desk chair. Technically she’s off the clock, whatever that means for a small business owner. Snap has the bar until closing and, despite Poe’s heat leave encompassing three of her staff, she has enough people in that she could leave for the night.

But leaving means _being alone_ , and right now she really, really doesn’t want to be alone. Physically, yes, but there’s something about the murmur of customers and rhythm of alt-j in the background that makes her feel like she’s wrapped in a warm security blanket. It’s the promise of socialization if she wants it, without the obligation of needless small talk in an overcrowded room.

Her eyes focus in on the single bottle on her desk, unmarked except for masking tape that’s starting to peel at the edges. Her gin. Ben’s gin.

It’s weird thinking of him as Ben. She’s only had one conversation _with_ him, but several _about_ him with his uncle, plus her little...romp in his sheets, and calling him by his name makes her feel like she’s somehow violating him. Maybe it’s because she’s robbing them of their meet-cute, of that pivotal scene in all of the movies where the clumsy Omega female spills her coffee on the gruff Alpha male’s brawny chest, and has to dab it off of his pecs while nervously spluttering her name as he tries to hide how flustered she makes him.

That’s not them. That’s not _her_ to be accurate. She’s less...big, hulking Alpha and more determined, charismatic Alpha, at least on her good days. There’s no one lining up to spill coffee on her blouse, unless you count the skinny jeans wearing hipsters who try and flirt with her to gain access to her magic vagina. Instead of a meet-cute, all she gets is a bizarre, alcoholic love note from an Omega she barely knows, whose scent she can’t manage to scrub out from under her fingernails. Less meet-cute, more meet-awkward. With gin.

But _what_  a gin. She uncorks it, and the smooth piney spicy citrusy scent blooms to fill the room, enveloping everything in _her_. Pouring a finger, she swirls it in the shot glass before she takes a sip, sloshing it on her tongue as the alcohol evaporates from the heat of her mouth.

It’s _breathtakingly_ lovely. Striking, actually, how she can actually feel the emotions he put into making this gin. It’s aggressive without being abrasive, cheery without being cloying, and smooth without the lingering soapiness of other gins. It’s _her_ , really, when she gives herself the benefit of the doubt and tries to examine herself as someone else might see her. The fact that he made this from memory, and it smells _exactly_ like her and _feels_ exactly like her, it’s–

It’s intimacy. That intimacy, the one she was talking about with Snap. The instant connection, the years of life and love clicking together with a single sniff. She felt it to, when she sniffed his note to Luke and buried her face in his pillow, his anxiety, loneliness, discontentment, and unbearably soft heart were laid bare to her in the chemistry of his scent.

She empties the glass, letting the last of the gin trickle down her throat as her eyes close and she leans her head back against her headrest. It’s exquisite, really deserving of a signature cocktail that will probably drive her patrons insane, but how could she ask for more? Would it even be possible for him to–?

“Hey Rey?”

Her eyes fly open and she rolls her chair around to face the door, which is cracked open just enough for her to see Snap’s face peeking in.

“What’s up?”

“There’s a package for you.” He opens the door and walks into her office carrying a small, cardboard box. “Sent priority, so I figured I’d check to see if you were still in.”

“Oh, thanks!” She grabs her box cutter and slices open the tape, releasing a hint, just a _whisper_ really, of the most delicious scent she’s ever smelled in her life: Cardamom, clove, juniper, ash, plus something else that she can’t identify. Heart thumping, she looks up at Snap, then back down at the box, her hands suddenly damp with sweat. “Uh, would you mind–?”

“Oh, right! Um, sure. I, uh, should get back to the bar anyways.” He’s confused, but intuitive enough to assume that his presence really isn’t needed, and leaves her office, closing the door behind him.

Rey flops back onto her chair, the box clasped in her hands. She’s nervous; the label on the front reads _Skywalker Estates_ and the last box from there was...it was _something_ , that’s for sure. Really, she’s nervous because she knows what this has to be. It’s obvious, from the priority shipping to the traces of scent she catches from the still closed box. It’s _him_ , it _must_ be.

Taking in a deep breath, she steadies herself and opens the cardboard flaps, releasing a slightly stale, slightly papery, still magnificent scent into her office. She whimpers, tears already prickling at the corners of her eyes, because the _need_ rolling off of it is palpable, but she can’t stop yet. She pulls the bottle from the box and sets it on her desk, next to its mate from before, then uses her fingernail to break the seal at its neck. Finally, she coaxes the cork out from the neck, releasing it with a small ‘ _pop!’_ and then–

“Oh no,” she gasps, clutching her hand over her mouth and nose, but it’s too late. It’s _him_ , swirling around her, encompassing her with his scent, saturating her nostrils so that all she can smell, all she can think of is _him_ . But it’s not just him, no, it’s so much more. It’s _fever,_ and _ache_ , and pure unadulterated _need,_ and she’s not sure how he managed to do it, but she can practically hear him screaming in her head _Alpha, please, help me._

_I’m close._

Her entire body is pulsating, adrenaline and arousal making her jittery and antsy. Determined, she pours a splash of the gin in her shot glass and, before she thinks better of it, downs the whole thing in a single gulp. It’s _devastating_ , warm and spicy and piney and _him_ , steeped in the musk of impending heat. Her muscles twitch and her pussy clenches, primed, ready to mount her Omega the moment she sees him but he’s _so far_ and she–

“I have to go,” she yells, bursting out of her office and into the hall.

Kaydel, the waitress covering Finn’s shifts for the week, abruptly stops in front of her, a plate of jalapeno poppers balanced precariously on her upturned fingers. “O-okay? Have a good night then, eh?”

“No, _no_ !” Rey bites her tongue to keep herself from screaming because her body is going a million kilometres an hour and everyone around her is so damn _slow_ . “I’m going on the ferry. I have to go– I– _my_ –uh, he’s waiting for me.”

“Who is waiting for you?” Kaydel is a Beta, obviously, impervious to her bosses increasingly spiking scent in the tiny hallway.

“My _ma_ – my friend. My friend he...he’s sick, so I have to go.”

“Oh shit.” Kay steadies the platter of appetizers with her other hand. “Do you need anything?”

“No, nothing, _nothing_ , I just need to get out of here _now_.” Impulsively, Rey flings her work keys at the other woman who, without a free hand, lets them fall to the floor. “Here, you’re in charge until I get back.”

“Me?” Kay’s already large eyes go as wide as saucers. “But Rey, I’ve only been working here three weeks, I–”

Rey’s already out the door before she can complete her protests. Grumbling, she kneels to the ground and retrieves the keys then, for her troubles, grabs one of the cooling jalapeno poppers off the plate and takes a bite. “Fucking Alphas.”


	4. Black Ink and Yuzu

“Oh COME ON!”

Rey leans her entire elbow on her horn, which lets out a sad honk of protest before trailing off into silence. “Stupid piece of shit car, fucking shit, stupid,” she mumbles to herself, ready to grab her tool kit and dive into the guts of her hunk of junk car from the eighties before she shakes her head, realigning her anger to what _actually_ upset her.

They. Cut. Her. Off. The ferry employee, the _goddamn_ ferry employee in his stupid vest with his stupid sunglasses had the _fucking_ nerve to cut off the line to board the ferry right in front of her car. She paid sixty dollars to board the damn boat, and now she has to wait hours while some puke green fifteen passenger van full of snot nosed kids gets to board before her and she–

With a snarl of rage, she throws open her door and jumps out of the car. Within seconds she’s unlocked her trunk, thrown her backpack over her shoulder, and is halfway to the ticket booth, car abandoned behind her.

“Don’t even know why I _brought_ that stupid thing,” she mutters to herself, fishing a sad looking ten and a handful of loonies from her pocket. The ticket agent, a bored looking man in his early twenties, looks up at her dispassionately as she approaches.

“Destination?”

“Saltspring,” Rey responds through gritted teeth.

“There’s a transfer at Galiano, and boarding for walk-ons ended,” he checks his phone, “a minute ago.”

“Please, I need to be on that ferry.” He’s a Beta, which is good or else she might be tempted to try to command him to let her on, that’s how desperately she _needs_ to get on that damn boat. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Sorry miss,” the agent drones. “There’s nothing I can do for you. Next ferry leaves in two hours.”

His eyes flick down to his phone again, where she can clearly see him opening up Insane Cupcake Party. Her blood pressure spikes and her brain screams _KILL HIM_ , but instead she does the most cruel, ruthless thing she can think of.

She cries. Big, fat, tears well up as her lip wobbles and chest heaves, and she can feel her sinuses start to empty her mucus reserves as she wails, “P-please sir, it’s my b-boyfriend, he’s so sick and he’s b-by himself on the island and I don’t know what I’ll d-do if I can’t get to him!”

His eyes flick up from the game, and go wide when he sees how she’s fallen to pieces in the last ten seconds. “I, uh, miss I’m so sorry but there’s nothing I can–”

There’s a crowd gathering so Rey pulls out all the stops. “He’s been by himself f-for the past two days but my b-boss has made me pull double shifts and I’m just s-so worried. I’m the only family he’s got and last I heard he was p-puking his guts out, but I haven’t heard from him in f-four hours and I’m s-so scared that he’s _dead_ …” She dissolves into wet, messy sobs, eliciting some groans of sympathy from the people waiting in line behind her.

“Let her on already!” pleads a middle aged Omega woman carrying a reusable shopping bag full of multicoloured umbrellas. “Or else if he dies, it’s _your fault_.”

“Jesus.” Shuddering, the ticket agent picks up the receiver next to his computer. “Hey Dave, it’s Mac. I’ve got a lady down here who is having a family emergency. Yeah, on Saltspring. No, I didn’t ask whether it was bad mushrooms, but it kind of sounds like it. Sure, okay I will, thanks.”

Wordlessly, he puts down his receiver then goes to his computer and presses a few buttons. A long, rectangular ticket shoots out of the small printer next to it, which he takes and passes to her. “Here. But you gotta run, the ferry’s leaving in five minutes.”

“Oh my God, thank you so much!” She’s about to run off, then remembers to toss her keys on his counter. “I’m so sorry, but I left my car out there in line. I promise to pay for any fees incurred, thanks!”

She doesn’t stick around to hear his frustrated bellyaching. After all, she has a boat to catch.

*

She’s practically paced a hole in the decking by the time the ferry finally, _finally,_ docks at Saltspring Island. It was a harrowing few hours, punctuated by a couple of disapproving glares from Beta parents, long suffering sighs and foot stomping on a stopover at Galiano Island and most notably a fifteen minute panic attack when she realized she didn’t actually confirm that Ben was on Saltspring at all, and might be writhing though his heat at some unknown address in Victoria.

Fortunately, the part of her brain capable of forming logical conclusions decided that Ben _must_ still be on Saltspring. The gin he sent smelled of lust and heat, and there’s no way anyone would allow him to travel in that state. Her suspicions are confirmed when the ferry docks on the island. As soon as she arrives, she can smell him; just a faint echo of scent, but enough that she doesn’t need to double check the address to find him, she just follows her nose.

Her skin feels all weird and itchy and prickly, like it’s ready to jump off of her guts and make a run for it. It’s not rut, no, _that_ will come later once she finds him, though it’s enough to make her jog down the road, gulping the traces of juniper and cardamom like oxygen as she gets closer and closer to he- _the_ Omega.

She’s sure she reaches the door of Skywalker Estates in record time, only to find the shop locked up with only a taped on paper sign reading ‘ _Closed due to illness.’_ A growl bubbles up her throat, furious and desperate as she jiggles the antique front door knob. Locked? _Why?_ Maybe he was worried about attracting unwanted attention from other Alphas, maybe he was already _with_ another Alpha? Rey chokes back an angry sob as thousands of panic-fueled scenarios fly through her head.

What if a tourist scented him and decided they wanted to have a taste? What if one of the postal workers was an alpha and scented her package before it got to her? What if– what if he changed his mind after he sent it, and locked himself inside so he could work through his heat alone and undisturbed?

But then the wind picks up, sending a gust of air across her face and, _yes_ , there he is, that mouth watering, swollen, lusty fragrance of an Omega in the throes of heat, tinged with desperation and loneliness. She hears a soft groan on the breeze and looks up, spying a window on the second floor that’s been cracked open. There’s no easy way to access it, even if the porch and exterior mouldings look sturdy enough that–

_Enough thinking_. More _doing_. Rey slings her arms through both straps of her backpack and, with a prayer of thanks for her small stature, hefts herself up onto the modest front porch railing and straightens up enough that she can grip the edge of the roof. With some scrambling, she’s able to make it up to the roof, only knocking off a few mangled shingles that she swears she’ll replace later. She lists, then rights herself, her muddy running shoes unsteady on the weathered asphalt as she navigates the incline, with her eyes fixed on the small, wood framed window before her.

_“P-please...please, are you there?_ ”

It’s him, _Ben_ , and he sounds absolutely wrecked, his voice throaty and desperate behind the glass. She scrambles the remaining few feet to the wall then, digging her fingers under the wooden pane, hefts open the double hung window, releasing a waft of Omega arousal straight up her nostrils, so potent and heavy that she nearly stumbles off of the roof. Before she’s able to accidentally kill herself, she shoves herself through the open window, backpack first, and tumbles right onto the floor.

His scent _explodes_ around her, fresher and stickier than it was the night she slept over. She jumps up, reeling, like a diver surfacing up from the ocean, then turns to her left, to the bed she remembers in the corner.

_Ben. Omega. I’m here._

The bed is a mess of fabric: rag quilts, itchy wool throws, even a ratty Hudson’s Bay point blanket is twisted in, along with some moth-eaten towels. She counts at least three reusable water bottles in various stages of emptiness, plus a half eaten Cliff bar and a sprinkling of cherry stems. Within it all lies Ben, whimpering and panting, a broad chested, pink, sweaty mess.

She’s never seen anything more beautiful.

He groans, black hair fanning around his head on the plush down pillow. He’s naked, she presumes, a wrinkled, suspiciously stained sheet wrapped around his waist. He looks wrecked already, all flush cheeked and wide eyed, his scent spiking sweet and heady throughout the room. His nostrils flare, and then with a raspy hiss he breathes, “ _Rey.”_

Not _Alpha_.

_Rey._

Her chest constricts. Rey, _Rey_ , it’s _her_ he wants, its her he called for. Not some nameless, faceless Alpha to rid him of the burn in his veins, no, he called for _her_ in the most perfect way possible.

Catching her breath, she peels off her windbreaker, pulls off her shoes, and drops her backpack on the floor. Her hands are shaking with pure _need_ , but she tempers herself long enough to reach over and intertwine his clammy fingers with hers. “ _Ben._ ”

“ _Oh_.” It’s his turn to shiver with pleasure. “Y-you came. I didn’t know if you would get it in time or if it would work.”

“It was perfect.” She runs her free hand against his flushed cheek and he _shudders_. “You did such a perfect job.”

“T-thank you.”

Rey’s skin is starting to crawl from sitting still for too long and her brain is screaming at her to tie him down, to rip the blankets off, to _take him, take him, take–_ but she can’t, not yet anyways. Not before–

“Ben, I–”

He groans, his scent spiking again as a wave of green cardamom and musk infuses the air. “Please, Rey, _Alpha_ , please, pleaseplease.”

Her hand squeezes his. “You really want this?” she breathes. “With me? You don’t even know me, how can you be so–?”

“ _Rey._ ” He pushes himself up from the bed to meet her eyes, dripping, no, _drenched_ in sweat and it should be disgusting but he smells _divine_ like spice and forest and the perfect drink at the end of a long, hot day. “I want _you_ , please.”

It’s enough for her, at least at this point. With a grunt of effort, she wiggles out of her shirt and is about to toss it aside when Ben grabs it, clutching it in his fist to bring it to his nose. He takes a long, deep inhale of the cotton, rubbing it all over his face and neck as she watches, a deep blush staining her cheeks. “You smell so _fucking_ perfect,” he gasps into the fabric.

“But I’m right here,” she protests.

He groans. “I _can’t_ , not yet. I have to-to pace myself.”

While he’s occupied, she quickly pulls off her socks and throws them under the bed, not quite ready to see his nose buried in _those_ , then peels off her slacks and unclips her bra. _That_ gets his attention; he drops her shirt to the ground and stares as she slowly, _slowly_ slips the straps down her shoulders, cradling the cups against her arm until she’s sure he can’t stand it anymore. Only then does she drop the bra, exposing her pert breasts to his hungry gaze, and he _whimpers_ with want. 

“Y-you’re so...so…”

“So what?” she demands, trailing her fingers down the taut planes of her abdomen, past the soft indent of her navel, until they linger just so on the waistband of her panties. “So what, Ben?”

“So, so...so _delicious_.”

“Delicious?” She grins wickedly. “How do you know if you haven’t had a taste?”

She means it only to tease, but the way his entire body seizes up like he’s being punished confuses and arouses her in equal measure.

“Rey, _Alpha_ , I-I...but I have. Tasted you.”

His guilty eyes flick down to his sheets, and her face _flames_ . Sure enough, if she concentrates hard enough, she can make out a remnant of her own scent, stale but pungent, still on the sheets of his bed. “You’re not saying you— _you..._ :”

“I did,” he groans, tugging at her hands to try and pull her into the bed. “And it was so amazing, so rich and delicious, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“And you want more?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” he whines.

Eyes locked in his, she slowly pulls down her underwear, swaying her hips from side to side until she’s finally bare before him. He reaches towards her, frantic, but she bats away his fingers with a tap of her own and clicks her tongue. “Down boy,” she purrs, “let me take care of you first.”

She drinks in his attention, the way his eyes frantically scan her body then zip back up to her face like he’s afraid he’s offending her. She’s never been one for vanity; she’s been told her face is pretty, and her body is toned and useful enough to serve its purpose, but the way he’s looking at her makes it seem like she’s walked straight out of his deepest darkest fantasies, like a superheroine or a goddess. Emboldened, she kneels on the bed and swings her leg over his hip, straddling him as she wiggles closer.

“Please, please, please, please,” he murmurs, his wide brown eyes locked on hers. She’s heard of heats being like a mindless trance, but the moment he stares at her _, really_ stares at her, she feels like it’s the first time she’s been wholly seen. Now her own lucidity is on the verge of falling away, except she holds on, has to hold on for her Omega, at least for now. She has to take care of him first; it’s her job as his Alpha, and she’s nothing if not professional.

Reverently, she tugs the sheets from his trembling hands and pushes them off to the side, exposing him to her hungry gaze. He’s _gorgeous_ , all thick strong muscle with just enough pillowy softness to make him perfect for cuddling. In the back of her mind, she thinks that he looks like the perfect father, but she immediately packs that thought away for later. This time is just for her Omega, only for Ben, not for her to unravel the endless string of abandonment issues she’s coiled away in the dark corners of her brain.

His dick is... _magnificent._ Honestly, she didn’t know what to expect. After hearing a handful of her Alpha friends talk about the Omegas with penises they managed to sleep with, she was bracing herself for something a bit smaller and maybe...knobbier? But Ben’s dick is just as thick and sculpted and perfect as the rest of him, so much so that she blurts out, “oh, you’re _beautiful_.”

He takes in a sharp, gasping breath. “W-what?”

“You’re beautiful. All of you.” Her voice drips with satisfaction.

“ _What_? No, I’m too...too–”

Frowning, Rey places a delicate finger on his protesting lips. “Hush. You’re beautiful. And perfect. You’re...everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Dark, glassy eyes stare back at her. “T-thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

She wants to tell him more. Tell him how gorgeous he smells, how being here with him makes her cracked heart feel like it’s mending. Tell him how attached she feels to him already, and how much that scares her. Tell him how his swollen mating gland peeking out from his neck is the most luscious thing she’s ever seen, how she wants to clamp her jaw around it and never let go.

But then he lets out a low, aching groan, and whispers, _“Please.”_

Her hands grip onto his muscular arms as she pulls herself closer, dragging her swollen pussy against his cock. He hisses, shuddering at the sensation of her slick folds meeting his fevered skin. He’s so, so good for her, this hulking mountain of an Omega with hunched shoulders and sad eyes, and all she wants to do is make his world better and brighter, so she angles herself _just so_ and twists her hips _just right_ , then she feels him nudge her open, stretching her wide, then–

_Oh_ . It’s so _different_. And not different in a bad way either, different in a way that makes it hard for her to actually differentiate why sliding down on this particular dick feels life changing instead of merely nice. She feels different nerve endings activate, ones that haven’t been stimulated before and, _suddenly_ , she’s very aware of the fact that she’s been going about this all wrong. Going about sex all wrong, going about life all wrong. Everything goes bright and white around her and all she can see is Ben’s head thrown back in ecstasy, his trembling hands grasping onto her hips as she slowly, slowly thrusts around him, his ruby red lips still muttering, “please, please, please, please…”

Colours explode behind her eyelids as she feels herself clench, her orgasm ripping up her spine like a brand as Ben moans underneath her. It’s _transcendent_ , the feeling of his dick pulsing into her as her pussy grips him ever so perfectly, bodies working in tandem to wring the last drop of pleasure out of their frantic coupling. She groans as another wave makes her bear down on him and _squeeze_ , and she’s about to frantically apologize for her vagina’s inconsiderate flagellation of his overstimulated genitals, but she notices his eyes roll back into his head as he lets out another grunt and then she’s flooded by another spurt of thick, wet warmth.

“ _Wow_ ,” she breathes, voice jittery. “This is–”

“– _perfect._ ” Ben grips her hips like she’s the only home he’s ever known. “So _fucking_ perfect, I—“

“—I’ve never felt this, _hngh,_ it’s never felt like this before, I, _wow_ ,” she pants.

She clenches again, her walls meeting his perfect resistance, and it’s like they were made for each other, made for _this_ . Her lungs are burning, almost choking on the piney resinous juniper scent in the air, then suddenly his hands are on her back, like fingers of fire against her tense muscles, and he’s murmuring, “Relax, _relax_ , I’ve got you.”

But she _can’t_ , not when she’s still chasing the staggering high of yet another wave of liquid pleasure. Her thighs drive a powerful rhythm against him, fueled by the little pants of air he puffs out as his eyes close and her toes curl and his mouth falls open and, _yes, almost_ –

She’s in free fall, worries and cares left behind as she collapses into the shaking yet solid comfort of his arms. Vaguely, she feels herself squeeze tight around him, locking them together as he pulses inside her. Her nose burrows into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, so pure and concentrated straight from his skin. _Yes, more_ her brain screams and then finally, she succumbs to her instincts, extends her tongue and licks a hot stripe up his gland. Ben whines underneath her, hips thrusting involuntarily as she pins him down with her weight. Humming with satisfaction, she licks again, then again, tasting him hot and rich and piney in her mouth like a lifeline as she willingly allows everything else to pass away.

He is her centre. He is her home. He is her job, her task, her singular assignment, her _everything_. Her cheeks flush with renewed vigor and a second wind rushes through her body and reinvigorates her tired limbs and sweat slick brow. Fire burns in her veins as rational thought begins to peel away, revealing the animal beneath and the unquenchable drive to _mate_.

Everything afterwards is a blur.

*

Her smaller hands grip his larger ones, pinning them into the mattress above his head as her thighs flex around his hips. She swears the room is filled with fog; she can only focus on him and how every roll of her ass against him sends a gust of gin scented heat up her nostrils. Everything is closing in on her as the mania of her rut pushes her for _more, more, more._ More pleasure, more of his seed, more clenched teeth and whimpers under her as Ben comes again, flooding her with a sticky, dripping balm that only serves to stoke the fire again.

*

He’s got to be drowning at this point, what with the mess of slick and cum oozing out of her, but Ben’s grip on her thighs remains as tight as it was when she first mounted his face. Her own hands clench the headboard in front of her as she rolls her hips against him, biting her lip as she relishes the sensation of his tongue in her pussy and his nose bumped up against her clit.

It feels _wrong_ to come without him, but that doesn’t stop the full throated moan he rips from her as she writhes against his face. She rubs up against him, savouring the aftershocks as he pants and tongues at her like a man starved.

It’s only once she crawls back down his body and feels the sinful, sticky slide of him against her pussy, her breasts, and her abdomen, that she realizes she didn’t come alone after all. It’s decadent and wasteful, but she can’t help the way her fingers trail through his cum, tracing it against the divots of his chest as she whispers, “ _Mine.”_  

*

“I can’t, I can’t Rey, I _can’t_.”

“Hush, sure you can.” She leans closer and rubs her nose against his. “I know you can.”

He lets out a low whine that rumbles from deep in his chest. “I can’t, I can’t, I–”

She winks at him then rolls off of his hips, scrambling against the mess of his bed into she’s kneeled between his legs. His scent here is _heaven_ , musky spice and sharp pine laced with a heady drizzle of clove. It’s enough to spike her hormones into a lust crazed mess again, but she manages to keep her eyes on the prize, leaning over close enough to give his balls a hot, sloppy lick.

He yelps above her, and his soft, flagging cock twitches. “Good boy,” she purrs into the crook of his thigh, then trails her tongue lower, _lower_ , past the soft smoothness below to swirl around the clenched furrow of his ass.

“ _Oh_.”

Then his fingers are scrambling against the sheets, trying to pull forward and push away in equal measure. Eventually he collapses and succumbs to the sensation of her teasing him open with her tongue, then the very tip of her finger.

Despite his earlier protestations, his dick stands to attention almost immediately, just as thick and proud as it was hours before. She hums with satisfaction, working the full girth of her finger into him so she can graze his prostate. He chokes above her as she curls up against him, rubbing in small firm circles until he’s fully erect and leaking a ribbon of precum onto his firm abdomen.

“I knew you could do it,” she whispers into the soft hair under his bellybutton. “I’m so proud of you.”

As she clambers back on top of him, she entertains the notion of him crawling down between _her_ knees, him licking hot and wet strokes lower down _her_ body, of the burning hot stretch of his cock pressing firmly into _her_ ass, but the animal side of her brain roars in protest. Her rut screams for _more seed_ , to _mate_ , to squeeze him dry so she can swell with a child, how _dare_ she want anything more. She’s already wasted so much, dried and painted against her skin and his.

It’s still bliss when she bears down on him, as the freeing stretch of him empties her mind yet again.

*

It’s different like this, with her pressed into the sheets this time as he pounds into her from behind. Her muscles are pliant, and she feels like he’s even impossibly _deeper_ than before. As tingling warmth begins to spread from her core and crawl up her belly, she’s able to admit that it feels nice to be held for a change, nice to be lax and dependent on the arms of another.

But then her pleasure stalls and she growls with frustration because she needs just a _bit_ more. “Just...please...touch,” she bites out in between thrusts.

Ben stills above her. “C-can you...ask me again?” he pants. “O-only _more_?”

She frowns, confused, until the implications of his request click into place. “Are you sure?” she breathes.

“Yes p-please,” he stammers.

He starts thrusting again, slow and steady. She takes a moment to get herself back into the moment, to lose herself in the drag of him between her legs, and then she _commands_ him: “Ben. _Touch me._ ”

His rhythm stutters as he drops his hand to her slick folds. “ _Yes, Alpha._ W-where do you want me?”

“ _Touch my clit.”_

His fingers are shaking as they dip and swirl _just_ there.

“Yes, now _firmer_ Omega _._ ”

“ _Hngh, yes Alpha.”_

Rey feels herself climbing high again, feels the burn returning deep inside her belly tingle through her limbs. Ben curls around her as he thrusts harder and swirls faster, and vaguely she’s aware of something dripping on her neck, but the burn is so hot that she can’t focus on anything but how weightless and whole she feels. “Yes, _there_ , _don’t stop_ , yes, so good, _so good for me Ben_.”

He shudders, then moans into her hair as a bolt of pleasure rips through her. Her pussy flutters and clamps around him, locking him behind her as she trembles with aftershocks. Drunk on hormones, she’s only slightly aware of his muscled arms wrapping around her middle, easing them both onto their sides even as tears drip from his eyes and trail down her back.

“N-nuh,” she slurs into the resinous sweetness of his pillow. “N-no, not done yet, _more_.”

“S’okay.” She feels his nose poking her behind her ear, and it _tickles._ “S’okay, just a break Rey. Just a break.”

She halfheartedly struggles against his arms until the cozy warmth of his body behind hers lulls her into a semi-lucid haze. Just for now, her rut clears enough for her to reach up and intertwine his fingers in hers. “How are you feeling?” she whispers into the twilight darkened room.

“Okay.” His voice is muffled against her shoulder and she can feel his chest raise and lower as he tries to calm down from pounding into her. “It was...a lot.”

“Did I–?” She chokes back a groan of pleasure as she rubs up against his hips and his dick twitches inside of her. Her body still subconsciously seeks his seed, not quite satisfied with what she’s wrung from him so far.

“N-no, it’s not that. You were, you _are_ , so perfect.”

Another wave of warmth floods inside of her. She squeezes his hand.

It takes fifteen minutes or so before her vagina relaxes enough that they can detangle themselves. Once freed, Ben rolls himself over so he’s facing the window, after pressing a soft, shy kiss to her lips. “I just...some space,” he mumbles, and Rey completely understands. It was liberating to lose herself in him for a time, but now with a brief respite from her rut she’s suddenly aware of how sticky and gross her skin is.

“How long do you think we have?” she says, wiggling around until all she can see is the solid expanse of his back. “Before it all starts again?”

He peeks over his shoulder at her and flashes her a small smile. “Not sure. I haven’t had a heat since I was a teenager.”

“Right.”

“How about for you?”

“Me? Oh, I barely go into rut, I honestly have no idea.” Experimentally, she shifts her hips against the firm curve of his ass, and his breath hitches in his throat. “Probably not long though.”

“Okay.” He uses his free hand to fish around the blankets, retrieving a half empty water bottle that he offers to her first.

She bats it away. “I’m not the one who’s losing all the liquid here.”

“Then what do you call this?” he teases as he pats the sheets behind him that which, at this point, are almost destroyed by big wet stains of her slick.

“Hush.” She sticks out her tongue at his back and acquiesces by taking a large swig from the bottle.

They lie in silence for a few minutes, hyper aware of each others’ breathing. Rey clutches the sheets in her hands, suddenly nervous. Is this when she’s supposed to get snacks? Or water? Dammit, _he_ already offered her water! Should she give him a massage? Run him a cool bath? She didn’t bring anything with her besides her wallet and a change of clothes, and now she feels wholly unprepared for what’s supposed to come after.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “I forgot condoms.”

He stiffens next to her. “A-are...w-what...I mean–”

“Oh, I’m on birth control! I just mean, for like....protection.” She cringes. “I was always told that it’s the Alpha’s responsibility.”

“I’m not–” He rustles next to her. “–I’m clean, if it’s what you’re worried about. I haven’t...in…”

“It’s fine! You don’t have to tell me!” she blurts out, thankful that he can’t see her frantic hand gestures. “I’m, uh, same. Disease free!”

“Oh, good.” He pauses. “...not that I would discriminate against that sort of thing. People have done way worse to me.” His voice is so soft she can barely hear it.

“Ben, I would never hurt you like that. Never.” Righteous anger bubbles up her spine, and she feels her fists twitch. “Who hurt you?”

There’s silence, and she wonders whether she pushed too far until: “My boss used to... “ His shoulders tense up. “He was an Alpha.”

“Oh.”

“He used to command me when I worked under him. It started off small, so subtle I didn’t even notice, but over time he got bolder and bolder, but it just _felt_ so right, I didn’t want him to stop. I-I got to the point where I was scared that he would. Stop, I mean.”

The question lies stark between them, heavy and unsaid. “So did he–?” She can’t bring herself to say it, to even suggest that her beautiful, caring, broken hearted Ben has been _touched_ by a monster.

“I-It wasn’t like that,” Ben stammers. “Well it was actually, in a sense, but he never _did_ anything to me, sexually that is. It’s just...it’s hard to explain. He’d known me for so long and shaped who I had become. His commands were so well ingrained in my head that I couldn’t tell where he left off and I began. I know it’s hard to understand because it’s different for an Alpha, b-but it felt like...like he owned me.”

Rey bristles next to him. “No one will ever own you again, Ben, I swear it.”

He rolls over to face her, his dark eyes glistening. “ _You_ can own me, Alpha.”

“No!” She frowns, shaking her head emphatically. “No, _this_ isn’t like that!”

His face falls, and his body goes rigid. “Oh.”

She realizes her mistake a second too late, as Ben starts to pull away from her. “Wait, that’s not what I meant.”

Turning his back to her, he reaches down and retrieves his underwear from the floor. “You don’t have to explain yourself. You’re right, w-we don’t have an actual relationship, I–”

“Ben.” She runs a single finger along the raised ridge of his spine, and he _shudders_ , dropping his clothes on the floor as a flood of goosebumps wash over his skin. “Ben, that’s not what I meant.”

He lets out a tiny whine. “Yes, Alpha.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you, it’s–” She bites her lip, struggling to find the right words. “It’s just that...you see, I’m bad at being an Alpha.”

Immediately, he rolls back around and clasps her small hands in his larger ones. They’re warm and enveloping, just like him. “You are _not_ ,” he insists.

“Please, just let me continue.” She takes in a gulp of air. “I know that you feel a connection with me right now, and it feels like I can do no wrong, but I assure you that’s not the case. I-I can’t be what you need, Ben.”

His hands clench against hers. “How do you know that?”

“Because, I–” Her eyes pull away from his to focus on a spot on the wall beyond his head. “I’m not as strong as you think I am. I put up this front, but inside I’m-I’m– I cry _a lot_.” She sniffs. “At night, when I’m alone. I cry about so many things, things I’ve never told anyone. Sometimes I want to be held, and sometimes– a lot of the time actually, I-I wish I was normal.”

Normal. Synonymous with Beta, though not socially acceptable to say in polite company. If she were normal, she wouldn’t feel so guilty about wanting, _craving_ , closeness. If she were normal, she wouldn’t feel like such a freak for needing someone to be with her. Sure, in the wild primal urges of her rut, she feels comfortable demanding a warm body to mount, but here in the stillness? In the quiet times, when all she wants is the feel of someone else enveloping her for a change?

She sits back, pulling his sheets tightly around her and watching as he looks everywhere but her face. She’s screwed it up. It’s so obvious. Someone like him could have, _should have_ , the choice of any Alpha in the world; why would he settle for a messed up runt with issues like her? “I’d be shit at taking care of someone. I can take care of myself, but it’s not pretty. And I’m practically a hoarder,” she adds. “I can’t throw anything out it’s...it’s a problem. I’m a huge mess, my place is a mess, I’m a mess, I–”

“Rey.” Finally his eyes meet hers and _wow_ , have they always been so big and luminous and brown? “Rey, what do you see when you look at me?”

“What do I see?” She frowns. “I see a-a man.”

“A man?” He hums. “What else?”

She clutches the sheets closer to her chest. “A _big_ man?”

“A big man?” His face falls. “That’s it?”

“N-no, that’s not it I just–” Sighing, she nervously pushes her hair out of her eyes. “This is what I’m talking about. I said all those things while we were, were _together_ ...but when it’s just me, I never know the right thing to say to make people feel good, to make _you_ feel good. I’m not...sentimental like that, not really.”

She wiggles her foot under the blanket until it bumps against his muscular thigh, then keeps bumping it until she manages to elicit a small grin from his downturned lips. “What did you want me to say?” she wonders, voice soft.

He snorts. “Actually I was implying that _I’m_ a mess too, so really we’re perfect for each other.”

“Oh my _god_ !” She grabs the pillow lodged under her butt and smacks it into his shoulder with a resounding _thump_. “You fucking drama queen.”

He laughs with loud, unapologetic chuckles and a crooked smile, which she honestly would find unattractive on any other prospective partner but it’s _him_ and he’s _perfect_ and his face is starting to flush just so because it’s _that time_ again and her skin is prickling and her blood is rushing to meet him.

“Ben.” She pushes the sheet down, exposing her rosy, freckled chest to his hungry eyes. “Ben, is it starting again?”

“Mhm.” He’s taking deep calming breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, attempting to regulate the aching anxiety that’s twisting in his belly. “I mean it though,” he pants in between puffs. “I’m not the catch you think I am. I get angry a lot and I–” His throat catches, and he lets out a small whine as a dark, wet spot appears on the sheet over his lap. “–I, ah, I’m not good at controlling myself sometimes. Most of the time.”

“I can see that,” she teases, but her temperature is rising too, and she can feel herself start to swell and get slick in preparation for his cock. Part of her is screaming that they’re not _done_ yet, that they still need to talk it out, but her skin, her muscles, her burning, throbbing core yearns to push that all aside and mate.

“Tell me more about why you would be a _bad_ _mate.”_

He bites back a whimper at the word, his fingers unconsciously travelling up his body to stroke the inflamed gland on his neck. “I’m not presentable,” he gasps. “Don’t know how to dress myself.”

“Yes?” She pulls the sheet back from his body and runs her hands against the tops of his thighs, _so strong and steady,_ relishing the sensation of him shivering under her touch. “I’m not convinced. Tell me more.”

“I-I–” He gasps as she runs her fingernails lightly against his leg hair. “R-Rey, _please_ . I– I’ve been on suppressants so long, I don’t know _how_ to be a good Omega. But I promise I’ll learn, _please Rey, Alpha, please_.”

“You promise you’ll be good?”

Her hands slide up his arms, big _strong_ arms for carrying her children, for carrying _her_ after a long night of work. The reliable, muscled embrace of a _partner._

Of a _father._

“Yes, _please Rey,_ I’ll be so good for you.”

He throws his head back, exposing sweat glistened tendons of his neck that frame his lusciously ripe mating gland. She _aches_ to touch him there, aches to bury her nose into his neck and never leave, aches to whisper vows she knows she can’t keep into the pale skin behind his ear. “What if– what if I promise...I’ll take care of you, if you take care of me?” She’s panting now, leaving a slick trail of moisture against his legs as she crawls up his body. “Do you promise that?”

His damp hands grab at her back, steadying her as she lowers her face to his. “ _Yes_ ,” he breathes as her lips brush against his. “By your side as long as you live, yes Rey, I promise, _please_. No one else but you, no one _ever_ –”

She holds him back when he attempts to deepen the kiss and he _whimpers_ , but she’s not quite done with her questions. “Will you be loyal to me?” she whispers against the shell of his ear. “Just me?”

It’s not a fair question, not when her bare pussy is currently sandwiching his dick into his belly, but to his credit Ben pretends to think for a second. “T-the moment I scented you, I was yours,” he admits after a beat.

His confession spreads warm and thick in her chest and, for a moment, Rey feels whole.

And it scares her.


	5. Cassia and Pine

Her _everything_ aches. 

Rey wakes from her orgasm induced nap with a foggy head and sore limbs. It kind of like how she imagines she would feel the day after running a marathon though, admittedly, she has very limited experience of those sorts of duration sports to compare this to. According to her frantic Googling on the ferry, a heat could last anywhere from 3-7 days, depending on the individual, and Ben said this was his first in a long time. She groans as she methodically flexes her arms, legs, fingers, feet, then stretches out her wrists and checks her phone. It looks like this one is going to be a long one.

Not that she minds. 

She glances down at Ben, who’s bundled up in the blankets and snoring beneath her, his mouth hanging open. It’s cliche to think it, but he looks so much younger when he’s sleeping, free of his regular stresses and worry lines. He’s also amazingly comfortable to cuddle, just as her hormone glazed mind had assumed yesterday. 

About that. She knows, logically, that she shouldn’t hold herself accountable for what she thinks and says before and during her rut. It’s biology, plain and simple. Her Alpha womb, with its less potent fertility, craves as much seed as possible in order to assure conception and a healthy pregnancy. That’s it. That’s why she kept on imagining him cradling babies in his giant arms and picturing him rubbing her swollen belly with his massive paw of a hand. 

If she’s being honest with herself, she’s not even sure if she wants to have kids. Ever. The world is a fucked up place full of fucked up people, and she’s not eager to take on the responsibility of guiding one or more little people through the perverse, fucked up obstacle course of modern life. It’s yet another strike against her as an Alpha, one she doesn’t want to linger on during her brief respite from fucking Ben into the ground.

Her body is desperate for her to hold it all in, but there’s nothing short of a wine cork that could keep all of Ben’s cum from the last 24 hours inside of her. Still, she’s impressed that there’s only a moderate dribble down her legs when she stands, instead of the torrential downpour she was expecting. It’s small enough that she quickly dabs it up with a stray pair of underwear, then pulls on Ben’s worn, discarded t-shirt and cracks open the door. 

The air outside the room is clean and fresh and altogether wrong, but it’s been a full day and her stomach feels like it’s gnawing on itself, so she braces herself and ventures out of the cloud of sex, pheromones, and _them._ The hallway is lovely and sunny, leading to the charmingly squeaky staircase and bright white kitchen. Softly, she pads over to a fruit bowl and retrieves two luscious ripe peaches, then eases the fridge open and pulls out a hunk of smoked gouda. 

She’s about to rummage through the cupboards when she catches a strong, unmistakable waft of weed. It’s oozing through a cracked open window, along with a light tinkle of laughter that sounds awfully like–

“Luke?” she calls out, sliding the window open all the way. “What are you doing out there?”

There’s a shuffle, then the sound of someone or some _thing_ tumbling over, followed by a wild peal of giggles. She frowns, leaning over the counter so that she can poke her head outside. “Luke, is that you?”

“Affirmative.” There’s another laugh, then an elderly woman with colourful twists pops out from around the corner of the house and waves. “Hello dear. I’m Ahsoka, from down the street.”

“Uh, hi. I’m Rey,” Awkwardly, Rey hefts herself higher on the counter so she can reach out the window and shake her hand. “I’m...friends with Ben.”

“Friends.” Ahsoka attempts to smile but then her eyebrows start twitching and she dissolves into a mess of laughter. 

“Friends!” A shaggy mop of sandy blonde hair pops around the corner, followed by the rest of Luke, who is clutching his sides and howling. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Frowning, Rey pulls her hand back as anger bubbles in the back of her throat. “Excuse me?”

“Hush, hush.” Luke grins at her, his blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “We’re just teasing. Truly we’re happy for you, and for Ben.” He looks over at Ahsoka, who snorts and looks away. “And we’re happy for the future mini-Reys and mini-Bens to come.”

“Oh.” Rey’s gut clenches. Laughing nervously, she gives him what she hopes is a casual smile. “Don’t start celebrating just yet.”

“But Ben’s thinking it though, I bet. He’s always wanted a family. He’s probably imagining how he’s going to install all those baby gates in his condo, how he’s going to have to put all his leather furniture in storage and get those ugly couches from Ikea with covers that you can put in the laundry. Get some carpets for those shiny hardwood floors he’s so proud of. Hell, he’s probably filling out the forms for parental leave as we speak.”

Luke turns to Ahsoka for input, but instead of laughing the older woman stares back at him with a wistful, sad little grimace. His brow furrows. “You don’t think?”

“No, I do, I just–” Her eyes flick towards Rey, then back to him. “--maybe now isn’t the right time to discuss it.”

Rey squirms, feeling a bit like a kid that’s wandered into a conversation at the adult table. “I’m just going to go,” she blurts out, gesturing with the block of cheese as if that explains everything.

Ahsoka’s face darkens with concern. “Go? You mean leave?”

“No, I mean–” Rey waves the cheese again. “He’ll be waking up soon, and he’s probably hungry.”

“Would you like some kush to take along?” Luke wiggles his eyebrows. “It makes things interesting, that’s for sure.”

“Things are, uh, interesting enough.” She cringes. “But thanks.”

She waves at Ahsoka and then ducks out of the window and slides it closed. With her treasures in hand, she retreats back to Ben’s room, with it’s drawn curtains, warm blankets, and all encompassing scent. It only takes a sniff for her to feel the numbing curl of her rut begin to creep at the edges of her mind, so she makes quick work of the snacks, grabbing a pocket knife from the ground to slice the peaches and cheese into bite sized pieces. 

“Mmmmmhmmmm.” 

Good God he’s gorgeous when he’s sleepy. She tries to keep her eyes on her task, utterly failing when he brushes his hair out of his eyes and fixes her with a dopey grin.

“Hi Alpha.”

“Hi,” she whispers, suddenly nervous. It’s stupid, she’s seen every square centimetre of him and had most of him in her mouth, so the sight of him naked and sleepy in bed shouldn’t make her feel like a middle schooler at her first co-ed dance, but here she is, frozen in place, her eyes locked on his pale, broad shoulder peeking out of the blankets. 

His eyes fall on the food she’s brought, and his face lights up. “You brought my favourite cheese!”

“It was in your fridge,” she says, lamely. “I was in a bit of a hurry to get back, so I wasn’t able to grab anything else, but I can see if I can order something the next time everything lets up so we won’t die of starvation over the next week.”

She grabs a piece of peach and, unconsciously, brings it to his mouth. He swallows it politely, only barely grazing the tips of her fingers with his lips. “A week, eh?”

Ducking her head under the pretense of examining her lopsided cubes of gouda, she feels her cheeks burn red with embarrassment. “I just– I Googled how long it could be, and I–”

“That’s perfect.” He reaches over and plucks a piece of cheese up from his side table and pops it into his mouth. “If it was up to me, it would last the rest of the damn year.”

*

It ends up being another three days. Three days of snacking and fucking and sweaty sheets tangled underneath flushed, sated bodies. For Rey it feels like a blur, albeit an exhausting exhilarating blur. She has him every way imaginable: against the wall, propped up on his desk, but by far her favourite is him on his back with her on top so she can stare into his beautiful brown eyes and witness the moment he falls apart. 

She loves feeding him too. Fresh fruit, cheese, bread, and even some salmon sashimi that she’s sure Luke’s friend Ahsoka brought over. Her inner beast loves watching him eat, screaming at her to feed him well and fatten him up so he’ll never want to leave her. 

Her inner beast is wrong, of course. Now that Luke’s mentioned it, she can see how much he craves a family in the way he worships her breasts with his lips and rubs her tummy as he takes her from behind. He’s probably imagining her swollen with twins, milk dripping down her chest and, to be fair, she can’t deny that there’s an aspect of that that’s kind of hot, but the reality of the situation is that she can’t be that for him. Not when she still wakes herself up at night with dreams of hunger, abuse, and loneliness. Not when she sometimes curls up on her couch and forgets to eat during rainstorms, or when she compulsively counts and organizes her canned goods at 4 AM. 

So when she wakes up on the morning of the fifth day and smells the telltale shift in his scent, she hardens her heart and wiggles out from under his arms. Silently, she pads around the room, collecting her musty clothing, retrieving the clean set she packed in her backpack before stuffing the dirty laundry back in. Methodically, she hops on one foot as she tugs on her socks and underwear, and is about to wrestle herself into her bra when she hears a soft voice whisper:

“Where are you going?”

She’s never heard Ben sound so small, so vulnerable. Even in the throes of his heat, he’d been needy but not powerless but now, in this stark light of early morning, he looks absolutely terrified. 

“I-I’m going home,” she says, trying to sound as confident and authoritative as possible. “I’m needed back at my bar.”

“Oh. Right.” He turns his head to stare down at the messy bedsheets. A lock of hair falls over his face, and her heart skips a beat. “Well, I guess that’s that then.”

“That’s that,” Rey echoes.

She turns and clips her bra into place, willing her stupid eyes to stop welling up with tears when she thinks of walking out the door. It’s different though; this time _she’s_ the one who’s doing the leaving. _She’s_ the one in control. She’s not going to feel the way she did when she was six years old, huddled in the Overwaitea bakery department, clutching a half eaten cookie and waiting, waiting, waiting. 

“So you’re just going to leave me,” she hears him mutter. 

Her chest burns with anger. “Of course I am!” she spits. “I have a job, I have a home. I can’t just move in with you and have your kids Ben, not right now. Honestly, I don’t know what you were expecting.”

“I guess I expected that you would keep your word.” 

She spins around to face him, wrinkling her nose in frustration. “Are you talking about what I said before?”

His shoulders stiffen. “So what if I am?”

“That was all hormones.” 

“Hormones.” The corners of his lip twitch into a frown. “Such an _Alpha_ thing to say, to try and convince me none of it was real.”

“Please,” she chuckles, rummaging through her pile of clothes. “I’m barely an Alpha, and the sooner you figure that out, the better.”

“That’s _it_.”

With a grunt of effort, Ben hoists himself up and swings his legs out from the bed. “Come here,” he asks, beckoning her over with his hand.

She sighs, clean pair of shorts in hand. “Ben, I have to go.”

“Just...come here. Please.”

“Fine.” 

She tosses her shorts on the ground and trudges back to the bed, pausing once she’s close enough for Ben to tug her onto his lap. Methodically, he undresses her, his thick fingers grazing against the clasp of her bra and the delicate waistband of her panties. Rey’s breath hitches in her throat as he reverently strokes her skin, as the light hairs rising to attention under her fingers send convulsions of pleasure through her limbs. 

“Ben…” she warns, but then he cocks his head _just so_ , exposing his mating gland to her, as if he’s _daring_ her to bite down on it. It’s no longer swollen and angry looking, just slightly raised and a wee bit darker than the pale skin surrounding it. She’s still tempted, purely based on wanting to hear the noise he would make if she claimed him, and see the expression on his gorgeous, emotive face, but she no longer feels _compelled_ to do so.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” His voice is deeper, less demanding than it was during his heat but still laced with a sense of urgency. “Not so _much_.”

She shakes herself out of the daze of his gland. “Y-yeah,” she mumbles. “More _you_.”

He gives her a sad smile. “Not enough though.”

The words spills out of her before she can stop them. “Of course you’re enough!” 

He raises an eyebrow and brings his fingers up to brush a stray lock of sweaty hair from her face. “Enough for another go?” he asks, dragging his thumb across her lip. “One more for the road?”

She answers him by wiggling herself closer so she can run her hands against the smooth planes of his chest as he nudges his lips against hers _. It couldn’t hurt_ , she reasons as his rich scent spikes with arousal. 

But then she hears the soft whimper in his throat, feels the way his hands scramble for purchase on her skin like he’s scared of letting her go. “You don’t want me,” she whines as he licks up against her neck. “I’m a shit Alpha.”

“We’ve been over this,” he mumbles against her lips. “You’re the only Alpha for me.”

Hands spanning her waist, he maneuvers her onto the bed, clutching her against himself so he can continue to lick and suck his way down her neck and onto her shoulder. Rey squirms in his grasp. “Wouldn’t you... _hngh_...wouldn’t you want someone who could take care of you? P-properly?”

“I dunno.” His hands clutch her jaw, bringing her forward into a devastating, toe curling kiss. “Wouldn’t you like a soft little Omega who takes no for an answer? Who doesn’t push you at all, or catch you if you fall?”

“T-that’s not fair.” She threads her fingers into his hair, keeping him close as she nips his plump, bloodstained lips. “I just...wouldn’t you like someone stronger?”

He chokes back a groan of satisfaction as she hitches herself closer until she’s fully seated on his lap, her plump, slick folds grazing the head of his cock. “I want you to be happy,” she confesses as she grinds herself against him. “And I don’t think I’ll be able to make you happy.”

At her admission, he lets out a growl and, with a firm hand grabbing her ass, slides his length into her, hilting himself up against her pelvis. It’s sudden enough that she’s winded for a second, panting into his mouth as her brain struggles to process the delicious stretch of him in her sex swollen core. 

But then he holds her, _really_ holds her close to his chest, gripping her ass in his massive hands and rocking her against him _just so_. “What about what I think?” he breathes into her ear as she squirms against him. 

Rey can’t bear to look at him and instead buries her face in his shoulder. “W-what do you think?” she pants. 

“I think…” Another thrust, and it’s so good she can feel tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. “I think that a girl, that a _woman_ , who’s come from where you have, and succeeded like you have… _ngh_...I think that makes her stronger than any 7 foot, hairy, knot-brained fuck.”

She clings to him like a life preserver. “B-ben, no, no, no.”

“I think a woman like that would be an amazing partner,” he purrs. “I think...I think whatever lucky Omega she chose to be with would have to be...be an _idiot_ to not bend down on one knee and try to keep her forever.”

Hot, salty tears fall in rivulets down his back as she nuzzles his neck, breathing in his sticky rich resinous scent. Juniper, clove, ash smoke, and cardamom, running through her veins and imprinting themselves on her hearts. She feels the last of her rut ebbing away, abandoning her to his words, naked and vulnerable like a newborn baby. “No Ben,” she whispers. “Not me, not me.”

Her muscles _ache_ , and she’s not even doing anything. She’s falling apart at the seams, he’s tearing her to pieces bit by bit and all she can do is hold on for dear life as his cock drags out every dark, sickening, negative thought she’s felt about herself and lays them dead at her feet. 

“Why _not_?” he murmurs into her hair. “Let me in, Rey. Please.”

Her nose is running. Of all times for it to start running, it has to be the moment she’s grasping blindly at the sweet, aching burn unfurling deep in her core. No longer fueled by a hormones to mount him and milk him like a cow, she finally slumps and relaxes a bit, allowing him to prop her up against his chest as he continues to thrust once, twice, a third _deep_ thrust and then she feels his fingers slide between their sweat soaked bodies to messily thumb at her clit and it’s fumbling and sloppy and shouldn’t set her off, but it’s _Ben_ , so– 

She comes with a small shudder against him. The only sound she makes is a light, breathy sob and then her tears fall fresh, again, soaking into the softly curled ends of his hair. He thrusts a few more times and then groans into her neck, his release hot and thick inside of her.

“We d-don’t have to have kids,” he pants. “I don’t need them. Not if I have you.”

“No, Ben, no.” She crying for real now, deep heaving sobs that bubble up from her gut and make her body shake. “No, you want kids, I know you do, and I– I would be a terrible mother.”

“Is that what this is about?” He tries to pull back so he can look at her, but her pussy has locked them into place and his struggling only serves to send another white hot streak of pleasure up her spine. “ _Nhgh_ , you t-think you would be a bad mom?”

“Of _course_ I would! I’m so– so fucked up still, and unreliable. I can barely take care of myself, I can’t–” She chokes back another sob. “–can’t be relied upon to take care of children. Not properly. I didn’t--didn’t even fill up your water bottles.”

“What are you talking about? Fuck the water bottles, you’re _amazing_. You’ve taken care of me so well.”

“No, Ben, no I–”

“And why does all of this have to be on you? Where’s my say in this? Isn’t it my responsibility to take care of you, and any kids we might have?” 

She frowns. “No, not in the same way. I mean, what about your career?”

He laughs, full bodied and throaty, and it feels like she’s sucking back an entire mug of hot black coffee. “What career? Rey, I _left_ my job because my boss was abusing me. I have no career. I come out here and help out Luke when he gets busy, and then the rest of the time I loiter at Munro’s and bum around in my condo. I–” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head frantically. “–I’m really mad at myself about that, actually it’s– it’s definitely time for me to find an actual job, but if you’re worried about disrupting _my_ life, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t really have one.” 

“Oh.” 

“–I guess– I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you were to _choose_ me, I would be so grateful. I’ve spent most of my life fucking around in industry, and now that I’m out of it, I honestly just feel like a big bag of issues and not much else.” He rubs his clammy hands against her back and she should find it disgusting but it’s just so _him_. “You deserve someone far, _far_ better than me. You’re so accomplished. You’re beautiful. You’re... _way_ younger than me–”

“Wait.” She cocks her head to the side as she appraises his smooth, unlined face for signs of aging she’s previously ignored. “How old are you?”

He stiffens. “Thirty-two. Is that–” His voice drops. “–is that a problem?”

Rey snorts with laughter, despite her tear streaked face. “No, of course not! I thought you meant you were like fifty five and had Immortal Face Disease like Keanu Reeves.”

“No, not at all, just a regular face unfortunately.” He reaches up and pokes his cheek. “Going to be all old and saggy before you know it.”

It’s funny. The idea of seeing him age over the years, it doesn’t feel quite so alarming as it did even five minutes ago. “I’m not _that_ accomplished,” she admits. “It’s just a bar, after all.”

“Rey, no!” He engulfs her hands in his. “It’s a huge accomplishment. It’s the best bar in one of the hottest markets in the world, and you’re in your early twenties. You’re amazing.”

“I’m lucky.” She knows it’s a lie the second she says it, and he does too.

“No, _I’m_ lucky. I’m lucky you deign to look at me, let alone–” He gestures to their sweaty bodies still intertwined in his bed. “Let alone _this_. I–”

He stops, takes in a breath, and wiggles himself around until he can face her head on. Her muscles have relaxed enough that his cock slides out of her, leaving behind a slick, messy trail of cum. “Those things you said,” he continues. “Not about me leaving you, but me being too good for you...do you actually believe that?”

She chokes back another sob. “I-I do. At least, I think I do. You’ll be an amazing partner for someone...someone better than me.”

“But if you actually believe that, why can’t you trust that I believe everything I’m saying?” he pleads. “That I truly want to be with you and support you through every stage of your life. That I’m already _so proud_ of you for coming back from nothing and building something incredible for yourself. That I-I want _you_. Not a family, not kids, just _you_ , and if I get to keep you for the rest of my life, I’ll die a happy man.”

“B-but what if you change your mind?” She’s ashamed of how small she sounds, how weak and pathetic she must seem to him.

“Then we’ll work through it,” he says, determined. “I won’t leave you though. That’s not how this works. That’s how it worked for my pa– for _other_ people, but not how it works for me. If something comes up, then we’ll talk through it, or get therapy. I won’t give up on you, as long as you won’t give up on me.”

“‘I’ll take care of you, if you take care of me.’” She echoes her words from days ago, blurted out in a hormone riddled fog. “Ben, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know...what the next step is.”

He leans back against his squashed pillows. The sunlight peeking through the curtains casts a dozen tiny rays across his face, casting his skin and hair in stripes of highlight and shadow. “Well,” he starts, his voice rough with emotion. “Do you want me? Do you want _us_?”

She tugs at the blankets around her. His earnest gaze is making her feel extremely exposed but maybe, _just maybe_ , it’s for the best. “I want you,” she breathes. “I want...this.”

“I do too.” He smiles, full and vibrant and just a little bit crooked. “And I promise I’ll do whatever you need to make it happen. I’ll sell my condo, I’ll find a place in Van, I’ll live in a cardboard box if I have to–”

She stops him with a finger to his lips. “How about we start off with finding you a job.”

“Oh.” His face falls. “Right, uh, yeah. I’ve applied to a bunch of non-profits, but I think they’ve been scared off by my job history and my references. I could...work at Starbucks?”

He’s embarrassed, it’s clear from the way the tips of his ears poke out red from under his hair. Smiling, she tugs her hand out so she can squeeze his big paws in her dainty ones. “I think I have something in mind that’ll be perfect for you.”

He looks up at her shyly through his bangs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She gives him a peck on his pink flushed cheeks. “Do you know how to make a cocktail? Because I know someone who’s in the market for a spare bartender.”

*

“...so like I was saying, they’re obviously utilizing it as a form of eugenics. It may _seem_ like a benefit, but really Big Pharma is being paid by the government to push suppressants on Omegas as a form of population control.”

It’s as if the hum of the bar’s background noise fades into silence at the declaration of this ‘hot take’. Rey shakes her head, her rag wielding hand paused mid-wipe. “... _excuse_ me?”

“The federal Suppressant Act? It’s up for debate again, and there’s people protesting in front of parliament?” Sniffing, the scraggly bearded customer downs the rest of his drink and taps his glass on her bartop, obviously annoyed by her lapse in attention. “I figured you would be interested in that.”

Ah yes. Rey looks around her empty bar, hushed and dimmed because it’s _practically_ closing time and this guy hasn’t gotten the hint to leave. She takes in a deep, calming breath and examines his frayed neck scarf, vintage jean jacket, empty framed glasses, then gives the air a derisive sniff. _Beta_. Presuming that she would want to spout off an opinion on reproductive rights at 1:56 AM on a Friday night is such a tone-deaf, fake woke Beta thing to assume, especially since she’s very obviously cleaning up for the night. “And why did you figure this?” she asks, modulating her voice to mask her frustration.

“Well, because you’re an Alpha, right?” He cocks his head to the side, as if there was some sort of physical marker of Alpha-ness on her that would set her aside. “That’s what I heard, at least. Sorry if I’m mistaken.”

“No, no, you’re right. I am an Alpha,” she sighs, resuming her cleaning duties. “At least, that’s what it says on my ID.”

“Ha! Cute!”

Abruptly, his scent shifts. Not in pheromones, but in his armpits, which Rey unfortunately picks up too easily. She knows what it is, can tell by the way he’s shifting nervously from one asscheek to another on the barstool and rubbing his fingers on the walnut bartop, and then: 

“Hey...what are you up to after this?” 

Rey resists the urge to roll her eyes and instead coyly looks up from shining the chrome faucet. “Uh, sleeping, I think?”

“Oh, right.” He chuckles. “Well, I was wondering if you’re free some other night, one when you’re not closing, maybe you might wanna hang out? We could go dancing, I could maybe buy you some drinks?”

 _There it is._ “That’s very flattering,” she starts. “But I’m currently in a relationship.”

His eyes light up, like she’s just admitted she’s a unicorn or moonlights as a nude model. “Oh that’s o-okay,” he stutters. “She can totally come too.”

 _She can come too_. Rey huffs back a bark of laughter. “Really? Well then.” Hiding her grin, she calls over her shoulder, “Hey hun, can you come out here for a minute?”

The customer straightens up in his stool, fingers strumming nervously on the bartop. There’s the _swish_ of a door then an ominous _thump, thump, thump_ down the hallway. She watches, giddy, as the glint of excitement flickers from his eyes and is slowly replaced with horror as her 6 foot 3, 240 pound, man-bunned Omega boyfriend swaggers in behind the bar and rests a massive, frisbee sized hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, leaning over to brush a kiss against her temple. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I was just talking to– what did you say your name was again?”

The customer blanches. “C-chad.”

“Chad!” She looks up at Ben and winks. “He invited us out for drinks and dancing some time...his treat.”

Ben’s lip twitches. “Wow, that’s very generous of you Chad.”

“I-I, uh, you’re welcome. I’m just going to...go.” Chad digs around in his pocket and produces a crumpled, rust coloured fifty, which he pushes across the bar. “Here, uh...keep the change.”

He hops off the stool like his skinny jeans are on fire and runs out the door before Rey’s able to squeeze in a hurried, “Have a nice night!” With a sigh, she trails behind him and, after taking a quick look around the bar to make sure there are no more customers, locks and bolts the door. 

It’s just her and Ben tonight. Even since he’s started at the Antilles, she’s booked the two of them on the Friday red eye closing shift so the rest of her staff could go out and enjoy themselves. Her chest always swells with pride when she notices them hanging out at the bar anyway, even with the option to go elsewhere, because it’s what she’s always dreamed of, creating a special place, a _home_ for the people she loves the most.

As for her actual home...she would be lying if she claimed her basement suite in Chinatown didn’t seem a _wee_ bit crowded now that Ben’s moved in but, with rent the way it is, they make things work. Ever the gentleman, he offers at least once a week to sell his Victoria condo, but she can’t allow it. Not quite yet. She claims he should wait until the market is blazing hot, but really it’s because she still can’t quite believe that someone like him is willing to tether himself to someone like her, forever.

Ben frowns at the locked front door. “He seemed nice.” He turns to look at her, and his face splits into a smile. Walking over to the sink, he grabs her abandoned rag and finishes shining the faucet. “Not really your type though.”

“Oh, because you’re such an expert on my type,” she sasses back. 

He snorts, then retrieves the spray bottle of cleaner and squats down to wash the mini-fridge under the bar, the one Rey uses to keep her fruit cool. He opens the door, shakes his head with confusion, and slowly closes it, eyes wide. “Uh, Rey?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s...something weird in the fridge.”

“What? Oh!” Her face lights up, and she practically skips across the room towards him. “That’s something special I’ve been working on. D-d’you want to try it?”

His eyes flick up at the clock. “Is it going to knock me on my ass? Are you going to need to steal a shopping cart from a homeless guy to haul me back home?”

“Knock _you_ on your ass?” She looks him up and down, and grins wickedly. “No, not at all.”

“Sure. Okay.” He backs out of the way as she slips behind the bar, his fingers just grazing her hips as she passes by. Making himself comfortable on a stool, he watches, enthralled, as her hands dance across the counter, tendons flexing as she grasps the neck of a glass bottle in her hands. She’s a force of nature in her element, a master of her domain and craft. Honestly, he could watch her forever and never get bored.

She slides a highball glass of what appears to be frog spawn across the bar. “Here. Try this.”

Ben wrinkles his nose and wiggles the glass. Its contents _jiggle_ in place, while the scant liquid covering it sloshes up the sides. “What _is_ this?”

“It’s gin and tonic bubble tea!” she exclaims with a megawatt smile. “I soaked the boba in a gin infused syrup, then mixed them with some Fentimans tonic.”

“Oh.” He wiggles the glass again, strangely entranced by how wobbly it is. “Is it good?”

“You tell me! You’re the first to try it.” She leans back against the counter, dreams of stardom in her eyes. “I got the idea from a Japanese bar that sells boba beer, but I’m pretty sure I’m the first think of cocktails. If it’s good, I have a whole bunch more planned: mojito boba, collins boba, Long Island boba.”

He takes a sip, suppressing the urge to splutter when the bouncy balls worm their way into his mouth then, cautiously, chews. Slimy yet firm, the tapioca gives a bit of resistance before exploding into a burst of sugary juniper and sticky resin. He has to chew a bit more than he would like to coax the balls into something gluey enough to swallow, so by the time is mouth has been emptied, it’s been long enough that Rey is staring at him with horrified concern.

“Is it...bad?”

“It’s–” He swallows again, some residual tapioca goo still stuck at the back of his throat. “– _different_. And not different meaning bad,” he clarifies. “Just...very unusual.”

“Hm.” She nods, processing his words. “But do you think the hipsters will like it?”

“Oh, the hipsters will _love it_!” Ben gushes. “Especially if you add one of those big straws they give out with actual bubble tea. Paper of course, no plastic.”

“You’re a _genius_!” 

Ben’s smile goes decidedly dopey, and he reaches up a hand to rub at his neck. A small, barely perceptible tendril of his piney, spicy scent seeps into the air, and instinctively Rey opens her mouth, allowing it to settle on her tongue and dance down her throat. She takes in a deep gulp of air, hums, and grins. “About a week or two out now, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.” His cheeks flush. “Give or take.”

“Hmmm.”

“I remember you mentioned last time that–” He pauses and bites his lip, suddenly too overwhelmed with emotion to continue.

“Yeah.” Rey’s voice comes out rough and raspy. “Yeah, I did say that. And I meant it, as long as you want–”

“I do!” he blurts out, then blushes deeper at his choice of words. “I mean–”

“Good.” She smiles at him, eyes squinted and cheeks burning pink between her freckles. “I want it to.”

Eyes still locked on hers, he brings the glass full of Rey’s Abomination (as he’s dubbed it in his head) to his nose, and takes in a deep inhale. Juniper, bergamot, clove, ash, and cassia. His eyebrows raise. “Did you _mix_ my gins?”

If possible, she looks even _more_ embarrassed than she did before. “I-I might have,” she squeaks. “I was just...curious. About what we might smell like _after_.”

He smiles, and takes another sniff. Her scent doesn’t arouse him like this, mixed with sugar and tonic and these god-awful goo balls, but he can detect a slight whiff of _something_ else. Of promise. Of comfort. 

Of a future. 

“It’s perfect,” he admits, putting down the glass so he can grasp her hand across the bartop. “Enthralling. Warm. Honeyed. Complex, but not off-putting. Strong and beautiful. Just like you. ”

Her eyes sparkle under the dim bar lighting. “One day I’ll believe you,” she whispers. 

“I know.” He squeezes her hand in his. “And until then, I promise to do my hardest to try and convince you.”

For a moment, things are perfect. Cozy in this nest she’s made for them, Rey lets herself dream of a life where Ben’s always by her side, letting her shine brilliant and bright as he backs her up. “It’s BC Distilled in two months,” she says, eyes glittering in the dim light. “Has Luke asked you to man his booth?”

“Hmmmm.” Ben brings her hand to his mouth and brushes a soft kiss on her knuckles. “If I’m being honest, I might have some plans of my own.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She tugs their hands back towards her so _she_ can kiss his fingers. “You planning on making another special batch? So you can seduce yourself a new Alpha?”

“Ha! As if.” 

His smile is so broad that his eyes crinkle and two long dimples break out next to his cheeks. Rey feels a burn deep in her chest, of protectiveness, possessiveness, and love. Together, they stare out the front window at the bright city lights outside, hands clasped as the scent of gin swirls in the air around them like a memory of home.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saint_heretical)!


End file.
